Stolen
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Something very precious has been stolen. But by whom? And how on earth will they get it back? Rating M, now. *SPOILER ALERT* May contain spoilers for other stories in this Saga. Mycroft/OC established relationship and Sherlolly/Parentlock.
1. Stolen The Prologue

**Stolen**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Prologue**

The Virgin Pendolino train pulled in to Manchester Piccadilly station and drew to a smooth halt. The doors opened and the passengers began to alight and make their way to the main concourse, amongst them a tall young man with a military bearing, carrying his travel bag over one shoulder. The journey from London Euston, just short of two hours and ten minutes in duration on this high-speed tilting train, had been comfortable and pleasant in First Class.

The young man had enjoyed the extra leg and elbow space and his complimentary coffees and lunch; the in-train wi-fi had enabled him to watch TV on his iPad and he had also done some research for his latest college assignment. All this had helped to take his mind off the purpose of his journey. But now he had arrived in the county of his birth, his thoughts returned once again to his mission.

Having checked the Departures board, he crossed the main concourse to the Transpennine Express platforms to catch his connection to Stalybridge, his home town. The train was ready to leave so he stepped aboard and sat in the nearest available seat, dropping his travel bag onto the seat next to him. The carriage was nearly empty, this being mid-afternoon.

In an hour's time, it would be packed with school children, on their way home, and an hour after that, commuters would be strap-hanging after a hard day at the office, but right now, he shared the car with just two ladies and a small dog, for the short, twelve minute journey.

He was coming home. He hadn't been home in a very long time – over a year, in fact. The last time, he was on leave from the Army. His dad had greeted him with a handshake and then dragged him down to the pub, to show him off to his friends. He'd spent the week enjoying his mum's cooking, catching up with old school mates and walking in the hills with the family dog. The whole family had accompanied him to the station and waved him off, like some sort of hero.

This visit would be very different. He was no longer in the Army but that was not a problem. With nine years' service under his belt and multiple tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan, he had done his bit. He was a student, now, at the University of Westminster, the first person in his family to go to university. His parents were very proud of that.

On his last visit home, he's been single – unattached – and his mum had asked him, casually, if there was any chance of her becoming a grandmother in the near future. He had just smiled and his dad had punched his shoulder, affectionately, saying,

'Still playing the field, eh, lad?'

So the news he was bringing to them, today, would come as quite a shock. He wasn't too concerned about how his mum would take it. Like most mums, she rolled with the punches, stayed calm and carried on. But his dad was a different kettle of fish, entirely. His dad would take it hard. But Arthur had lived the lie long enough. It was time to come clean about who he really was.

ooOoo


	2. Stolen Chapter One

**This chapter contains expressions and opinions that some people may find upsetting. They are not my opinions but those of the characters.**

**Chapter One**

Walking from Stalybridge town station to his parents' home, Arthur passed several familiar faces who all greeted him, cheerfully.

'Eh-up, lad! You home on leave?'

'Not on leave, no' he replied, each time. 'I'm not in the army any more.'

'Oh, OK, staying long, then?'

'No, just for a couple o' days.'

By the time he arrived at his destination, half the neighbourhood knew he was back.

He walked round to the back door – nobody ever used their front doors in this area, except for a funeral – and, pushing the door open, called out,

'Hello, mum! I'm home!'

His mum appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, with a huge smile on her face.

'Hello, love!' she greeted him, with a big hug. 'Eee, it's so lovely to see you! Was it a good journey?'

'Yes, thanks, Mum, it was fine. How are you?'

'Oh, I'm fine, love. All the better for seein' you again. You're still my baby, y'know, even though y'are all grown up! Sit done, love. I'll put the kettle on.'

Arthur put his travel bag in the hallway and sat at the kitchen table, while his mum pottered about, putting on the kettle and getting the tea things ready.

'Have you eaten, love? I can make you a sandwich.'

'No, I'm fine, mum. I had lunch on the train,' he assured her. 'How are the girls?' Arthur's two older sisters were always referred to as 'the girls'.

'Oh, they're fine. Rosie's just started on the tills, at the Co-op. Now Josh and Jack are both in school, she can work four hours a day and still be home for them. I've said I'll mind the boys in the school holidays. Child care is so expensive; it's hardly worth going out to work, if it all goes to the child-minder. And Josie is still at the factory, in Personnel. Human Resources, they call it now, but it's still hirin' and firin', i'n't'it?'

It was very pleasant, sitting in his childhood kitchen, listening to his mum chat about the family and the neighbours and what was happening at the plastics factory, where his dad worked.

'Your dad's on Earlies, so he'll be home soon. He's been telling all his mates you're coming to visit. I expect he'll drag you off to the pub, later, as usual!'

Mrs Brocklehurst pushed a mug of steaming tea across the table to her son and sat opposite, sipping her own drink.

'Dad was very disappointed that you didn't come home, y'know, after your demob. He was so looking forward to having you around.'

Arthur pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow. There was a lot to explain but he wanted to talk to both parents at the same time so this was awkward.

'I know, Mum, and I am sorry about that but…'

'Yes, I know, son, you don't have to explain. There aren't many opportunities for young men up here. Your dad understands, too, but he just feels a bit out-numbered, being the only male in the family!'

'Apart from Jim,' Arthur reminded her. Jim was Rosie's husband. He worked in the plastics factory, too, though not on the same line as his dad.

'Yes, there is Jim. But still, y'know,' his mum nodded.

Arthur suddenly looked around.

'Hang on! Where's Max?' he asked. Max was the family dog, a chocolate Labrador, as soppy as they come.

Mrs Brocklehurst looked sad.

'Oh, we lost him, last Easter,' she murmured.

'Lost him, how?' Arthur asked.

'Poison,' she said, simply.

'What? Somebody poisoned him? Who would do that?' Arthur was horrified.

'No, we don't think it was deliberate. You know what he was like for eating stuff, greedy beggar. We think he ate some rat poison, put out by the council. That's what the vet thinks, anyway.'

'Shit!' Arthur exclaimed, then apologised for swearing in front of his mother.

'I'll let you off, love. This once. Sometimes the odd curse is justified.'

A noise at the back door signalled the arrival of Mr Brocklehurst. He charged into the kitchen and clapped Arthur on the shoulder.

'Arthur, lad! About time! Where've you been, all these months?'

'Down south!' Arthur laughed.

'We thought you'd forgot about us! 'Specially when you didn't come home for Christmas. We missed you, son – well, I missed you. I 'ad nobody to escape with, down to the pub! I 'ad to stay in and watch Downton bloody Abbey!'

'No, you did not,' his wife corrected, placing a mug of tea in front of him, too, as he joined them at the table

'Sorry about that, Dad. But I did tell you, a close friend got married on Christmas Eve. I had to be there. They asked me to do a reading,' he explained. 'But that's partly why I'm here now,' he began – using the marriage reference as a handy link and steeling his resolve.

'You see, I've met someone and - ' he paused, wondering how much information to give, all at once, ' – well, this person is a bit special. We sort of love each other. So, we've decided to get...married.'

'Oh, Arthur!' squealed his mum, with tears sparking in her eyes.

His dad reached out and offered his hand, with a huge grin plastered right across his face.

'Well, congratulations, son! Who is she? What's her name? Have you brought her with you?' he effused, shaking Arthur's hand, enthusiastically.

'Erm, well, no, I haven't brought them with me. I wanted to talk to you on my own, first, and explain a few things,' the young man replied.

Both his parents looked surprised and a little concerned.

'Explain what?' his dad asked. 'What wrong with her? Is she…not English?' he said, choosing his words carefully.

'No, my partner is English. Very English, in fact, from a very old family.'

'What, like landed gentry, y'mean?'

'Yes, in fact. Not 'like' landed gentry. The real thing, with a title and everything.' Arthur was floundering, wondering how best to drop the bombshell. This was hard. Harder even than he had imagined and he had imagined it would be bloody hard. But his dad was on a roll.

'Bloomin' 'eck! Are you serious? Our Arthur marryin' a Lady Mary or something? 'Ow did you meet 'er?'

'I was nursing a family member – the person whose wedding I went to, at Christmas – and we just sort of…clicked. I can't explain it, really, because we had nothing in common. Anyway, it just happened. We've been together for more than a year, now, so…'

'More than a year? And it's only now you decide to tell us about her? What took you so long?' his dad chortled, still a bit overcome by the mention of a title.

'Well, it's a bit complicated,' Arthur began again.

'Is she divorced?' his mum asked.

Arthur shook his head.

'No, mum, she's not divorced. She's not even a 'she', actually. She's a 'he' – a man. I'm marrying a man.'

Both parents looked dumbfounded and said absolutely nothing for a full minute then his dad broke the shocked silence,

'Hang on a minute, lad. What are you saying? I don't get this. You say you're marrying a man?'

'Yes, Dad. I'm marrying a man. I'm gay, Dad, and I'm marrying man.'

There was another long pause as Mrs Brocklhurst put her hand to her mouth and looked, apprehensively, from her son to her husband and back again, then Mr Brocklehurst found his voice, again.

'No, no, no, that's not possible! You? Gay? You were a soldier! You fought in a war! Two wars! How can you be gay?'

Arthur shook his head.

'There is no law against gay people joining the British Army, Dad. And, to be fair, I didn't do much fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan. I was a nurse – I am a nurse – I looked after the people who did the fighting.'

'No, I'm not having this!' His dad jumped to his feet and stood, looking down at his son in disbelief. 'You can't just suddenly be gay!'

'I'm not suddenly gay, Dad. I've always been gay. I was born gay. I just never told you.'

'That is RUBBISH!.' Mr Brocklehurst bellowed. 'You had lots of girlfriends, at school - loads of them!'

'I had girlfriends, yes. They were friends who were girls. I was never sexually attracted to any of them. And I'm sorry I never told you, before, but there really wasn't ever a good time or a good enough reason. But now, there is a good reason – though still not a good time. I've met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with and he feels the same way about me. So, I can't put it off any longer. I'm sorry.' He looked at his mum, when he said the last part because he knew that, as bombshells go, this one had a slow fuse and the big explosion was still to come.

'But you're a man, son, a man! You're supposed to marry a woman and have babies and carry on the family name! Who's going to carry on the family name? Have you thought about that? Don't you want to have children and carry on the family name?' his dad spluttered, giving voice to his whirring thoughts. This was so far outside his comfort zone, it was on a different planet. Gay people were the butt of jokes between him and his mates, in the pub on a Saturday night. Not that he'd ever, to his knowledge, met a gay person. But half the men on the telly were gay, weren't they? Not anyone he knew. And certainly not his own son, his only son!

But Arthur was speaking again.

'Mycroft has children. They're twins, Katy and Charlie. They're beautiful.'

'Oh, so he _has_ been married before, then! And to a woman! When did he change sides, start batting for the other team?'

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

'He hasn't been married before, to a man or a woman. The babies were conceived through IVF, using Mycroft's sperm, with donor eggs and a surrogate mother. Sorry, Mum,' he apologised, as his dad eyeballed him for using the word 'sperm'.

'So, readymade grandchildren,' his mum said, wistfully.

Arthur pressed his lips together and took her hand, in silent gratitude.

'No, Frances, I'm not having that. This isn't right. It's not normal. Donor eggs and a surrogate mother? No, that's wrong.'

'Dad! Lots of straight couples have IVF, using donor eggs and surrogate mothers. It's called progress.'

'Yes, but that's OK. There's a mum and a dad – not two dads! Those kids must be so confused!'

'Why, Dad? Why should they be? They have two parents who love them. What's confusing about that?'

'The children, how old are they?' his mum asked.

They're three,' Arthur replied.

'And what do they call you and…Mycroft?'

They call him Daddy and they call me Poppah.'

He chose not to add that the sobriquet had evolved from Katy's attempts to say Arthur. It was Mycroft who had honed in from 'Arpur' to Poppah. Arthur loved being Poppah.

But Mr Brocklehurst was still in denial.

'This is a reaction to the war, isn't it? You're not thinking straight. You're shell-shocked, or whatever they call it these days – PTSD, yeah, that's it. You've got that.'

'Dad, please! I'm a psychiatric nurse! I can tell you, categorically, that I do not have PTSD. And if that's what this is, I've had it since I was eleven – which is when I realised I was gay.'

'But what about Tommy?' Tommy Olleranshaw had been Arthur's best friend all though school.

'What about Tommy?' Arthur reiterated.

'Well, he was your best friend. How's he going to feel, when he finds out you were a woofta, all along?'

Arthur rolled his eyes and sighed.

'I would hope he would be happy for me because I am happy, Dad, really happy. Mycroft loves me and I love him and – well – we love each other!'

Mr Brocklehurst put his hands over his ears.

'I'm not listening to this! This is sick. My son is NOT a pervert.'

'Arthur!' Arthur's mother exclaimed at Arthur Senior.

'No, Dad, I'm not a pervert. I'm a homosexual,' Arthur replied, regulating his breathing to remain calm.

'What does he do, love, this man?' Mrs Brocklehurst asked.

'He's a Civil Servant, works for the government. He has an office in Whitehall. He's the head of a government department.'

'My goodness, he has done well for himself. I expect his parents are very proud of him.'

'Actually, his parents are both deceased – they were killed in a plane crash, years ago – so there's just him and his brother, the one who was my patient.'

'And is he about your age?' his mum asked, homing in, with that unerring sixth sense that women seem to possess.

'No, he's older than me. He's in his mid-40's.'

'Oh, so he's the pervert then,' Dad barged back into the conversation. 'He took advantage of you!'

'Oh, Dad! I'm not a child, I'm twenty-nine! No one took advantage of anyone. We just…fancied each other!' Arthur's patience was wearing thin but he had to keep his cool or this could really escalate.

He and his dad stared at one another for a full minute then Mr Brocklehurst turned toward the back door.

'I can't get my head round this. I'm going to the pub,' he growled and stormed out, leaving an eerie silence behind, as though a whirlwind had passed through and left devastation in its wake.

'I should go after him,' Arthur said, eventually, standing up.

'No, love, best not,' his mum replied. 'Let him alone. It'll only make it worse if you go after him.' She walked over to the kitchen counter and switched the kettle back on, to make more tea. It was glaringly obvious to Arthur that she made no reference to her husband 'coming round' or 'seeing sense'. Both these things were highly unlikely. Arthur had rocked his father's world and the shockwaves were only just beginning to emanate from Ground Zero.

ooOoo


	3. Stolen Chapter Two

**Once again, some of the views expressed in this chapter may be upsetting.**

**Chapter Two**

Arthur lay awake, in his old bedroom, with all his rugby cups still on the shelves and the Darth Vader duvet set on the bed. He'd just texted Mycroft and was waiting for a reply, mentally reviewing the conversation he had had earlier, with his parents, wondering if he could have handled it better. The answer was, probably, yes but he didn't think the outcome would have been any different so it was pointless to dwell on it.

The phone vibrated in his hand and he answered it, rolling onto his side, toward the wall, closing his eyes, feeling as much as hearing the voice of his dearest one, his most precious possession.

'How was it?' Mycroft asked.

'Fucking awful, Mykey, absolutely fucking awful,' he replied.

'I'm so sorry, my love. I should have come with you.'

'No, Myke, that would not have helped. Even the title didn't help. Believe me, I played my ace but still lost the hand.'

'And your mother?'

'Oh, she's just chuffed to bits about the twins! She loves kids. She loves being a granny. I don't think she'd care if you were a bloody Martian, so long as you had kids!'

They both laughed, partly at the absurdity of the whole situation, and partly because the alternative would be to cry.

'So, what now? Do you still intend to stay until Friday?'

'I don't know. I feel I should, for my mum's sake. I don't want to leave her to deal with all the shit but, if I stay, it might just make things worse. I really don't know what to do for the best.'

'Is there anything I can do, to make it better?'

'Yes, there is, actually.'

'What is it? Tell me and I'll do it.'

'You can tell me how much you love me,' Arthur murmured, softly.

'That's not possible,' Mycroft replied, with a sigh of deep regret, 'for the simple reason that there are no words to express how much I love you. The words have not been created that could do justice to the feelings that I hold for you.'

Arthur pressed his face into the pillow and felt a warm glow expanding in his chest, making it hard to breath. He wanted to say something in reply but found himself unable to speak. Mycroft went on.

'There is nothing for it. I will have to resort to alternative means. Wait just one moment.'

Arthur almost giggled as he listened to Mycroft moving around in his study. He knew he was in his study because of the sounds he could hear, as the other man went over to the Bose Wave CD player, chose a CD from his vast collection, opened the case and slipped the disc into the slot. As the music began, the sound quality somewhat corrupted by the mobile phone transmission but exquisite, none the less, Arthur curled into a ball and hugged his knees.

The strains of Maria Callas' rendition of the aria, 'Ebben! Ne Andro Lontana' from 'La Wally', by Alfredo Catalani, poured into Arthur's ear and brought tears to his eyes as he was transported back to his and Mycroft's most recent trip to the Royal Opera House, where they had sat in Mycroft's private box and witnessed a very rare performance of the four act opera from which this music came.

After the heroine threw herself, dramatically, into the avalanche – ingeniously realised, on the vast Covent Garden stage, using a huge curtain made from vertical strips of lycra, under tension - Mycroft had turned to him and made his proposal of marriage, declaring that, if Arthur should decline, he would feel compelled to…throw him into the avalanche, too, in the interests of national security.

'You make me an offer I cannot possibly refuse,' had been Arthur's reply, once he got over both the surprise and the fit of suppressed giggles, at which Mycroft slipped a silver Claddagh ring onto his third finger, right hand, bearing the inscription 'Gra Dilseacht Cairdeas' around the band.

'What does it say?' Arthur asked.

'Love Loyalty Friendship,' Mycroft replied, 'in Gaelic.'

He had then plaited his and Arthur's fingers together and pressed their hands to his heart. They had gone home to the apartment in Cadogan Square and sealed their commitment to one another with a night of the most exquisite love-making.

'I wish you were here,' Arthur whispered, as the final chords of the orchestra died away, down the phone.

'I would be, in a heartbeat, if I thought it would help.' Mycroft replied, his voice low and earnest.

Before Arthur could reply, he heard the back door bang open, against the kitchen wall, and a loud crash as something large and heavy fell to the floor, downstairs.

'Oh, fuck. My dad's home and it sounds like he's had a skinful. I better go.'

'Arthur?' Mycroft implored. 'Ring me back, when you can. I won't sleep until I hear from you.'

Arthur promised he would call back, then he cut the connection.

ooOoo

Stepping out onto the landing, Arthur met his mum, in curlers and housecoat, on her way down to investigate the loud noise they had both heard.

'You stay in your room, love. I'll see to him,' she advised.

Arthur was astonished.

'Don't be daft, Mum! It could be burglars!' he declared, in a stage whisper.

'We both know that's not true, love,' she replied, ruefully.

'Well, if he is crashed out on the kitchen floor, you'll never lift him, so I'm coming, anyway,' Arthur insisted and led the way down the stairs.

When they reached the kitchen, Mr Brocklehurst was, indeed, lying on the floor, next to the chair he had knocked over on the way down. He lay face down and very still. Arthur crouched beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

'Dad, it's Arthur. Can you hear me?' he enquired, to establish how alert his father might be.

Arthur Senior gave a guttural groan, demonstrating that he was alive, breathing and at least nominally alert.

'Dad, can you sit up?' Arthur asked, in healthcare professional mode.

His dad gave another grunt that sounded like an attempt at speech.

'Sorry, Dad, I didn't quite catch that,' Arthur replied.

''Course I c'n s't-up,' the fallen man replied.

'Let's get you up, then,' the ex-Army nurse encouraged him, taking his father by the arm.

Mr Brocklehurst wrenched his arm from his son's grasp and growled,

'Get yer filthy poofta hands off me, yer bloody queer!'

Arthur gave no visible reaction to the insult, though it cut him to the quick. He sat back on his heels and sighed.

'You can't spend the night on the floor, Dad. You'll ache like hell, in the morning, if you do.'

'Oh, leave him, Arthur,' his mum insisted. 'It's not the first time and it won't be the last. I'll get a blanket and cover him over.'

She turned to go into the sitting room and fetch said blanket, as Arthur followed her with his eyes, stunned by the casual disclosure she had just made. She returned, moments later, with a throw from the back of the sofa and draped it over her husband's prone form.

'Come on, love, you get back to bed,' she urged her son, with a gentle smile.

Arthur rose and followed her back into the sitting room but caught her by the arm and she turned to face him.

'Mum, I had no idea! How often does he get like this?'

'Oh, Arthur, don't ask me, please,' she pleaded.

He slid his hand down her arm and held her hand.

'I have to ask, Mum. I mean, I can sort of understand why he's done this, tonight. If this was a one-off, I wouldn't be too concerned but it obviously isn't.'

'He's not a happy man, son. He feels his life has passed him by. He missed out on a promotion, just after Christmas – it went to a much younger, less experienced man – and he hasn't really got over the disappointment. And then, when the dog died, that hit him hard. He used to walk miles over the moors with that dog, mulling things over, get things out of his system. He doesn't go walking now, so it all just builds up. And then he goes an' gets plastered.'

Arthur sank into an armchair and rubbed his hands through his hair.

'My announcement won't have helped much, then,' he groaned.

'Now, don't you go blaming yourself, son. This is not your fault. You are who you are,' – she reached out and ruffled his hair – 'and, like you said before, there never could be a good time to tell your dad that you're gay. You might as well have told him you were a mass murderer!'

'I think he would actually prefer that I was a mass murderer!' Arthur exclaimed. 'He could have forgiven me for that.'

'C'mon, lad, get thee sen off t'bed,' she insisted. 'It'll rain or go dark before morning!' she added, quoting the old adage.

'It's already dark, Mum,' Arthur pointed out.

'Rain it is, then,' she smiled and kissed him on the forehead.

ooOoo

After ringing Mycroft and bringing him up to speed with all that had happened and been said, and despite having so much on his mind, Arthur did eventually drop off to sleep and slept through until nine o'clock the next morning. He came down the stairs, ruffling his hair and rubbing his eyes, to find his mum sitting at the kitchen table, reading the daily paper. There was no sign of Dad.

'Hello, love, you slept well,' she greeted him.

Arthur leant forward to kiss his mum on the cheek and then crossed to the kettle and lifted it by the handle to see if it needed filling, ascertained that it didn't and replaced it on the stand, flicking the switch to 'ON'.

'Want a cuppa, Mum?' he asked.

'Love one,' she replied.

'Dad in bed?' he asked, as he prepared the tea things.

'No, love. He's gone to work.'

Arthur was amazed. His dad must have the constitution of an ox!

'Was he OK? I mean, surely he's still drunk? How can he operate machinery?'

'Oh, he doesn't have to operate the machinery, now he's a supervisor. He just has to watch everyone else do it.'

This was news to Arthur.

'When did he get the supervisor's job?' he asked, pouring boiling water over teabags in two mugs.

'Christmas,' she replied.

'So that wasn't the promotion he was hoping for?'

'No, love. He went for Assistant Manager. I mean, he was the most experienced person to apply and, by rights, it should have gone to him but they told him they thought his temperament wasn't suited to the position. It went to an external candidate, instead.'

Arthur understood how that would have rankled with his dad. Obviously, loyalty and long service meant nothing.

'But Josie told me – and don't you breathe a word of this, our Arthur – Josie said there had been some complaints about your dad, when he was foreman, for being 'non-PC'.'

Arthur could well imagine that scenario but sort clarification.

'What sort of non-PC?' he asked.

'Well, you know, calling people names – the sort of names that everybody used to use but don't any more.'

'Y'mean racist names? Sexist? What sort of names?' Arthur asked, recalling a few choice examples from the night before.

'Well, he called one of the women a doxy,' she replied, looking embarrassed.

Arthur gasped. It was a miracle his dad hadn't been sacked for that!

'Anything else?'

'Oh, Arthur, y'know yer dad. He doesn't realise that the world has changed. In his day, there were no dark faces around 'ere. Now there's loads.'

'Mum, the number of persons from ethnic minorities in this area is less than 2%! That's nothing!'

'Yes, love, but it's 2% more than it used to be.'

Arthur sighed. He could not comprehend the attitude of people like his dad. It was so narrow-minded and bigoted. He loved living in multi-cultural London. He found it vibrant and varied and culturally enriching to have so much ethnic diversity in one place. But his dad had always been rather narrow in his views. If that had not been the case, he would have come out to his family years before.

'He won't come to my wedding, will he,' Arthur muttered, dejectedly.

'I don't think so, love,' his mum replied, squeezing his hand.

'And what about you?' he asked. 'Will you come?'

She looked chagrined as she gave a nondescript movement of the head.

'Is that a yes or a no?' he queried. 'I really would like you there. It would make the day perfect.'

She looked back at him and pursed her lips.

'Let me try and find a way, love. Put me down as a 'maybe'. Are you going to invite your sisters?'

'Of course!' he exclaimed. 'I'm going to see them both, today, and spill the beans. Wish me luck,' he added, wryly.

ooOoo

He need not have worried. When he walked into the Co-op, just before two pm and, approaching the till of his sister, Rosie, asked where he could find a bucket of nuts, she looked up in surprise then squealed with delight.

'Artie! You little bugger! How are you, love?' she chortled, giving him the biggest over-the-counter hug possible. 'Thank God you came home, at last! Dad was about ready to report you to the police as a missing person! Not that I blame you for staying away. God, give me half a chance, you wouldn't see me for dust. Hang on a tick, I just have to clock off and then I'm all yours. Just wait there.'

Arthur did as instructed, trying not to notice all the other shop girls sneaking glances at him and whispering comments to each other. Fortunately, Rosie was back in a jiffy and, linking arms with her brother, waltzed him out of the shop.

'Oh, you've no idea 'ow good it is to get out o' that place! I mean, we need the money, you know, and it's only four hours a day but – oh my God – it's _SO BORING!_'' she groaned. 'But this is 'me time', this hour, after I finish work and before I have to pick up the kids, from school. Come on, let's go an' 'ave a posh coffee!'

She steered him in the direction of the nearest coffee shop, an independent, Arthur noted, not one of a chain, and ordered a skinny latte for herself and a double espresso for him, both of which he insisted on paying for. He also treated her to a slice of lemon drizzle cake which, he remembered, was her favourite.

Once seated in a booth at the back of the coffee shop, Rosie grinned across the table at her brother and said,

'OK, who is he?'

'What?' he asked, quite taken aback. Had his dad gotten to her first?

'You've met someone, haven't you? Don't try to deny it, you're in love. It's written all over your face!' she giggled.

Arthur was speechless. His mouth opened and shut a few times.

'How did you know?' he gasped, eventually.

'I jus' told yer, silly, it's written all over your face!'

'No, no,' he corrected her. 'How did you know I was gay?'

'Oh, Arthur, per-leeze!' she said, accompanied by a theatrical face-palm.

'OK, I'll change the question. How _long_ have you known?'

Rosie reached across the table to pat his hand, patronisingly.

'Oh, only for ever, love. It was SO obvious!'

'Not to Mum and Dad, it wasn't,' he replied, with a despondent shrug.

'Oh, sweet'eart! They didn't give out Gay-da in their day. Or, at least, if they did, Dad were in t' wrong bloody queue and Mum, well, she gave 'ers back when she married Dad.'

Arthur looked down at his espresso and felt such an over-whelming sense of relief and gratitude toward his big sister, he really just wanted to cry – but not here in the coffee shop.

'Oh, Artie, love,' Rosie sighed, sympathetically, squeezing his hand again. 'Did you tell them, already?'

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

'And was it really bad?'

He nodded again and cuffed away a stray tear that had escaped, despite his best efforts.

'Aw, lovey, I am sorry. You should 'a' come to me 'n' Josie, first, you silly pickle.'

'Does Josie know, too?' he managed to say.

'She knew before me, the bloody know-it-all! Well, I 'ad my suspicions but she had no doubts.'

'Why didn't you say something?' he asked.

'Why didn't you?'

'You know why!'

'Well, same 'ere!' she shrugged. 'Anyway, now we're all on t' same page, who is he?' she implored.

Arthur took a swig of his espresso and then told his sister all about Mycroft and the twins and their lives together, in rural Hertfordshire.

'And then he proposed to me,' he concluded, 'and I said yes.' He held up his right hand and showed her the Claddagh ring.

'Oh, my God!' she gasped, grabbing his hand and pulling it across the table for a closer look. 'That is beautiful! Oh, shit! The kids!'

Rosie jumped up, dragging Arthur with her. She had been so engrossed in his story that the hour had flown by. It was home time at the local school and she needed to collect her children.

'Come on, little bro, try to keep up,' Rosie joked, as she hurried down the road, toward the school. Arthur strode along, beside her, feeling relaxed and cheerful for the first time since leaving London, the day before.

Perhaps things weren't as bad as he had anticipated.

ooOoo


	4. Stolen Chapter Three

**Once again, there are some views expressed in this chapter that people may find upsetting.**

**Chapter Three**

Arthur was mobbed at the school gate by his two nephews, seven year old Josh and five year old Jack, who were delighted to see their favourite uncle. Hefting Jack onto his shoulders, he swung Josh up onto his back, where the child clung like a monkey, and the party headed for home.

Once inside the family kitchen, Rosie made snacks for the boys – peanut butter on toast and strawberry milkshake – and a pot of tea for herself and her brother, while Arthur had a football kick-about, in the back garden, with the children. When afternoon tea was ready, they all assembled round the kitchen table, to eat and chat. Once the mini-meal was over, Josh and Jack went off to watch cartoons on TV, leaving their mum and uncle in the kitchen.

'So, what's your plan?' Rosie asked.

'I thought I'd go to the factory and meet Josie after work. I was planning to come out to all of you but I can see that's no longer necessary' – he mugged – 'so I'll just invite her to the wedding. I hope you'll come.'

'Are you kidding? Try keeping us away!' Rosie declared. 'And we'll try and persuade Mum to come, too. Dad can go hang, stupid prat.'

'Rosie, has Mum told you about Dad's drinking?'

'No, she never mentions it but Josie's told me stuff.'

'What kind of stuff?'

'Y'know about the complaints?'

Arthur nodded.

'Well, it's also been noted that he sometimes turns up to work a bit the worse for wear - '

'Like today,' Arthur agreed.

' – and she says 'e's a hair's breadth from a final warning.'

'What the fuck does 'e think 'e's playin' at?' Arthur was furious. 'He's a couple of years short o' getting' 'is pension. 'E should just be coastin', bidin' 'is time!' The longer Arthur stayed in his home town, the thicker his accent became, Rosie noted, although he still sounded a bit posh to her.

'Yeah, well, it's Mum I worry about,' Rosie muttered, not meeting her brother's eye.

'What do you mean?' Arthur demanded. 'He's not hitting 'er, is 'e?' He could feel his anger rising at the very idea that his mother might be a victim of domestic violence and he'd been too far away and too engrossed in his own life to be around to help

'I don't think so, no. I've never seen any marks on 'er, anyway, but she 'as to put up with 'is mood swings. I try to get 'er to come over 'ere on a Saturday and stay over – baby-sittin', like – 'cause he goes down the pub on Sat'day nights an' usually comes 'ome plastered.'

Arthur put his hand to his forehead.

'Oh, Rosie, someone shoulda told me! I woulda come home sooner…'

Rosie gave him an old-fashioned look.

'Arthur, Josie and I are big girls, y'know and quite capable of looking after our mum. If anything really bad 'ad 'appened, we woulda let you know. We talked about it and we decided that, whatever was keeping you down south must be pretty important and we didn't want anythin' to spoil it for you. You might be a bloke but you're not Superman! You don't 'ave to save the world!'

He shrugged his shoulders.

'I know you and Josie are capable. I'm sorry if I made you think I didn't. And I'm grateful that you were only thinking of my 'appiness but, honestly, Rosie, she's my mum too and if she's 'aving problems wi' Dad, I want to know.'

'OK, little bro, point taken, won't 'appen again. Now, 'ow long are you staying up 'ere?'

'I was plannin' on going 'ome tomorrow. We 'ave plans for the weekend. But, if I need to stay, I can let Mycroft know.'

'No, lovey, don't spoil your weekend. To be honest, I think Dad will need time to get used to the idea of you being…you! Probably best to let 'im stew on it for a bit. But, in t' meantime, you need to keep us in the loop wi' the wedding plans. I mean, two ready-made page boys, right 'ere! Not to mention a couple o' very able Maids of Honour. I'm not being pushy or owt but, y'know…' she concluded, with a knowing look.

Arthur grinned and leaned across to kiss his sister's cheek.

'If we decide to have page boys or Maids of Honour, you'll be the first to know,' he promised, 'but I best get off, if I want to catch Josie before she leaves work.'

'I'll text 'er, tell 'er you're on yer way,' Rosie assured him.

Rising from the table, the siblings hugged and Arthur popped his head round the sitting room door to say goodbye to his nephews. Hugs and kisses ensued and then Arthur left, to meet his youngest sister and get the full goods on his dad's problems at work.

ooOoo

Josie was waiting by the main factory gates when Arthur strode into view. He may have left the army but he still cut a very dashing figure, straight-backed, broad-shouldered and devastatingly handsome. Josie ran to meet him and threw her arms around his neck.

'Oh, Artie, it's so good to see you. Rosie's told me what happened at home. Are you OK?'

'Hello to you too,' he quipped, when he managed to get a word in edgeways. 'And, yes, I'm OK. How are you?'

'I'm OK, too!'

Pleasantries exchanged, they linked arms and set off to walk to Josie's flat.

Josie was the middle child, two years younger than Rosie, with the same age gap between her and Arthur. She had left school at sixteen, after taking her GCSE's, to go to the local College of Further Education, and rather than take 'A' levels in academic subjects, she took GNVQ's up to Level 3, in office management. On leaving there, she got a job at the plastics factory, in Human Resources, and worked her way up. She was now the office manager, second only to the Head of HR. She had her eye on that job, too, eventually.

Josie had met her long-term boyfriend at school and they had stayed together all through college – he trained as a chef – and, much to her dad's disapproval, moved into a rented flat as a couple, once they both found permanent employment. Just a year ago, they had decided to split up, after being in a relationship for fifteen years. By mutual consent, Josie had kept the flat and he had moved out, gone back to his parents' house. It was all very amicable.

'Do you see anything of Kieran?' Arthur asked, looking round the familiar sitting room and remembering how happy Kieran and his sister had seemed, here.

'Oh, yeah, we bump into each other now and then. He's workin' in a posh gastro-pub in Manchester, now. They've got two Michelin stars.'

Arthur was impressed. He sat at the breakfast bar that separated the sitting room and kitchen areas in this modern, two-bedroomed flat, whilst Josie pottered around, making a pot of tea.

'Unless you'd like something stronger,' she offered.

He shook his head. He wasn't much of a drinker. Tea would be just fine.

'I suppose you want to know about Dad's problems?' she said – a statement, not a question.

'Mum and Rosie gave me a rough idea but I'd rather hear it from the 'orse's mouth,' he replied.

'Eh! Who are you callin' a horse?' she exclaimed, in mock indignation. 'Well, OK, I'll spill the beans but you first. Who is he, what's he like, where did you meet?'

'Anything else?' he chuckled.

'I'm sure I'll have many more questions but those will do for starters,' she replied, with a satisfied nod.

So Arthur repeated pretty much everything he had told his other sister – though with far more interruptions with demands for clarification – and ended with the description of Mycroft's proposal, at the Royal Opera House.

'Oh, how romantic!' Josie sighed. 'He sounds lovely!'

Arthur gave a shrug.

'Well, I think so. He's always been lovely t' me and he is a big softie with the kids but at work they call 'im The Iceman.'

'Quite right. At work, you have to be professional and, if ice is required – which I imagine it is in his job – then ice it is. And, speaking of work, I suppose it's my turn now?'

Arthur nodded.

'How much trouble is he in, Jose?'

'Lots,' was the short answer. She then went on to list all the things that had gone against her dad getting the Assistant Manager's job and how he had reacted to the disappointment and started with the drinking.

'The thing is, Artie, we both know our dad has never been the most PC of persons but ever since he got friendly with that Mick Robinson, he's gone off the scale.'

'Who's Mick Robinson?' It wasn't a name that Arthur recognised.

'He moved onto the estate a couple o' years ago and started goin' in T' Crown.' That had always been Arthur Senior's local pub, ever since they had moved into their family home, when Arthur Junior was just a little boy.

'They got chattin', as y'do, and before you know it, they're BFF's. One by one, all Dad's old mates drifted away. They didn't like Mick or his poxy views.'

'What views?' Arthur asked. 'Don't tell me he's National Front or something, or UKIP?'

'Oh, much worse than that. He's a bloody White Supremacist! The man is evil!'

Arthur was shocked to the core.

'And our dad is mates with 'im?'

Josie shrugged.

'It's like he's sort of 'turned' him. You know you read about these young Muslim kids who get radicalised? Well, it's sort o' like that. It's a bit scary, actually, 'cos he just doesn't seem like our dad any more.'

Arthur shook his head, despondently. It was all a bit much to take in.

'D'y'want t' stay f't'supper?' Josie asked, changing the subject.

'No, thanks, Jose. I promised Mum I'd be back for supper. I want to have another go at talking to Dad before I go back down south, tomorrow. But thanks for askin'. And thanks for being Ok about…you know, my _revelations_.'

'Hardly news to me an' Rosie, bro! I've known you were gay since y'was a nipper!'

'Really? What gave it away?' he asked, with a challenging grin.

'Well, the Barbie dolls, for one!' she said, with a casual shrug of the shoulders.

Arthur burst out laughing.

'I never touched your Barbie dolls!' he declared.

'No, but you couldn't keep yer 'ands off Ken!'

'I NEVER!' he protested, as Josie shrieked with laughter at the look of outraged innocence on his face.

'I don't really know 'ow, chuck. I just knew,' she admitted, at last, 'but I was spot on!' She licked her finger and marked up an Air Point to herself.

'Are you happy here, Jose, on your own?' he asked, suddenly serious.

She reached over and squeezed his arm.

'Never better,' she pronounced, emphatically. 'I'm my own boss. I can eat what I like, when I like; I can go to bed when I like and with whoever I like and I can watch whatever I like on the telly without somebody sighing every five minutes and asking me what time it finishes. I'm 'appy as a pig in muck, me!'

'I'm glad,' Arthur replied, 'cos so am I!'

They said their goodbyes, with promises to keep more in touch, especially with updates about the wedding and about their father's dangerous liaisons, and Arthur left, to take the twenty minute walk to his parents' house, arriving home just before seven in the evening.

'Mum, I'm home,' he called, as he pushed open the back door and shrugged out of his light jacket. The smell of food cooking was making his mouth water, as he recognised the aroma of his mum's own take on the Lancashire hotpot.

'Aw, that smells lovely, Mum. Is it nearly ready?' he asked, as he heard someone come into the kitchen from the sitting room.

'It might be nearly ready, lad, but that's nowt to do wi' you,' came his father's voice, right behind him.

Arthur turned round, slowly, instantly tense and apprehensive.

'Why's that, Dad?' he asked, looking down from his four inch height advantage into his father's dark eyes.

'Cos you won't be 'avin' none of it.'

'And - again - why's that, Dad?'

'Don't call me Dad. You're no son o' mine.'

Arthur took a step back to get his father out of his personal space but his dad took a step, too, and was back in his face again.

'Dad, this is stupid. Can we not sit down and talk about it?'

'You've said enough, already, and I don't want to 'ear nothin' more about your twisted private life, yer dirty blackguard. Now, get out o' my 'ouse an' don't ever set foot in it again!'

Arthur stepped back once more, so his back was against the kitchen counter.

'Mum asked me to come back for supper. I think that means I'm here by invitation,' he said, calmly.

'This is MY house and _I_ did NOT invite you,' his father roared, his face red with anger, the adrenalin pumping.

Arthur could feel his own heart thundering in his chest and hear his pulse whooshing in his ears and he was beginning to shake but he kept his voice level.

'This is Mum's house, too. I'd like to hear her opinion. If she tells me to go, I'll go.'

'This is MY HOUSE!' his father roared again, spittle flying from his lips, such was his vehemence. 'It's MY name on t' rent book and MINE only! So GET OUT!'

Arthur's mum suddenly appeared at the kitchen door. She was ashen, wringing her hands in anguish.

'Mum?' Arthur said.

'Oh, please, love. I'm sorry but just go. It's f' the best.'

Arthur nodded, lips pursed tightly together, brows knit.

'OK, Mum. I understand. I'll need my bag and stuff…'

'It's int' front garden!' his dad spat. 'I chucked it out t' window.

Arthur nodded again and went to walk past his dad towards his mother but the other man side-stepped to block him.

'Where the 'ell d'ye think you're goin'?' he asked, belligerently.

'I'm going to say goodbye to my mother,' Arthur growled through gritted teeth and pushed past his father to stride across the kitchen to his mum, who was weeping, quietly. He enfolded her in his arms and whispered,

'It's OK, Mum. I understand. I'll keep in touch. Tell the girls if you need anythin'. They'll let me know.' He knew his mother would not be allowed to contact him directly.

He kissed the top of her head.

'Love you, Mum,' he said then turned and walked out through the back door. He went round to the front garden and picked up his travel bag from where it lay, upside down, on the lawn. The zipper was open so his belongings almost fell out but he shoved them back inside and zipped up the bag before swinging it over his shoulder.

As he left the garden, though the front gate, he took out his iPhone and thumbed open 'thetrainline' App then pressed 'Next train.' There was one due in fifteen minutes which had a connection to Euston from Manchester Piccadilly, getting into London just after ten pm. He jogged to the station to be sure of catching that train and hopped on, just as the doors were about to close. He dropped into the nearest empty seat and looked out at the dark countryside as the train left the town behind. Taking out his mobile, again, he texted Mycroft:

_Arriving Euston 2210hrs tonight._

After a few moments, his text alert pinged. It read:

_So sorry, my love. I'll send a car. _

ooOoo

**I have to admit to a bit of poetic licence with regards to the geographical location of Arthur's home town. Stalybridge is now part of Greater Manchester and has been since 1st April 1974, but that is not a very poetic place name! Historically, it was in Northern Cheshire but it is so close to the old Lancashire border that the accent is far closer to a Lancashire one than the one normally associated with Cheshire. So, for the purposes of my Storyverse, I moved Stalybridge over the county border into Lancashire. Sorry if this offends anyone! **

**Why chose Stalybridge and not somewhere else to be Arthur's home town? Well, I used to pass though the town a lot on the train and it has the most gorgeous Victorian railway station! So, when I thought of Arthur going home, it was to Stalybridge that he went, in my head. Simple as that! *HUGS***


	5. Stolen Chapter Four

**No trigger warnings needed for this chapter! Just some much needed fluff!**

**Chapter Four**

When Arthur arrived home at Colbert House, just before eleven thirty pm, Mycroft met him in the front hall. Few words were exchanged. Arthur certainly had no desire to relate in any detail the vile things his father had said or done. He simply announced,

'My sisters will be coming to the wedding,' and left it at that.

Mycroft acknowledged this with a nod and took his fiancé into his arms for a much needed loving embrace. They held each other for a long moment then broke apart, and Mycroft led Arthur by the hand up the stairs to the master bedroom, where Andrew, the valet-butler, had already brought Arthur's travel bag and was now in the process of unpacking it, when the couple entered the room.

'Thank you, Andrew,' Mycroft said, 'we'll take care of that. Please, do retire.'

'Of course. Good night, sirs,' Andrew replied and left the room to perform the lockup routine, checking that the house was secure, before retiring to bed himself.

Mycroft went into the dressing room to remove his three-piece suit and hang it up on the wardrobe door, from where it would be collected, the next day, by Andrew, and sent to the cleaners. Arthur sat on the bed and removed his trainers then lay back, with a deep sigh, and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted, though this was an emotional rather than a physical fatigue. He was still in that position when his partner returned to the room, in his dressing gown, en route to the en suite bathroom.

'Arthur,' Mycroft said, shaking the recumbent man's knee, 'don't fall asleep fully clothed, my darling. Come along, get ready for bed.'

Arthur hummed, in reply, but made no move to get up. Mycroft sat on the bed beside him and leant across to smooth the hair back from the younger man's forehead. Arthur opened his eyes to look into the other man's then slipped his hand round to the nape of Mycroft's neck and drew him into a soft, lingering kiss.

'I wasn't planning on falling asleep,' he murmured against his lover's lips and kissed him again, with a desperate intensity. Rolling over, he pushed Mycroft back on the bed and pulled the tied belt of his dressing gown loose, peeling back the front panels of the garment, exposing his fiancé's naked torso, then pressed his lips to the other man's shoulder, banishing all thoughts of sleep.

ooOoo

Several miles away, in Smithfield, Sherlock was walking the oak floor boards of the family's new home, with little Violet nestled against his shoulder, gnawing at her fist and grizzling, miserably. Sherlock cooed soothingly, as he stroked her back and paced through the ground floor of the house.

Violet had been a singularly uncomplicated baby, up to this point. After her precipitous entry into the world, she fed well, grew steadily, didn't suffer from colic and slept through the night from the age of four months. But now, at six and a half months, the dreaded Tooth Fairy had decided to put in an appearance.

The baby's gums were red and sore, she drooled relentlessly, which caused a nasty rash, despite the liberal application of Vaseline around her mouth and chin, and she gnawed at everything that came within range. Unfortunately, this included her mummy's nipples so, to save herself from pain, Molly had taken to expressing her milk, with a breast pump, and bottle feeding the baby, until such times as it was safe to go back in the water.

This was a bonus for Sherlock because now he could get involved with the feeding, which was the one part of parenting he had missed out on, up to that point. He adored the eye-to-eye contact of the nursing situation, when Violet would fix him with her intense gaze and barely blink, as she sucked, rhythmically, at the teat of the bottle. He was almost grateful that Violet had turned out to be a biter.

Molly and the boys were sleeping, peacefully, upstairs. One advantage of a house, over a flat, was that it was possible to accommodate a grizzly baby without waking up the whole household. Sherlock was a night owl, anyway, so it was no hardship for him to do night duty.

Molly was still on Maternity Leave, so she took the day shift, along with the nanny, Marie, who, in her basement flat, was the only other person who might have been inconvenienced by Violet's nocturnal activities, but the sound-proofing between the basement ceilings and the ground floor boards blocked out all but the loudest of sounds and Sherlock made hardly any noise as he trod those boards in his bare feet.

Poor Violet had developed a touch of diarrhoea and a slight fever, along with the pain in her gums, but Sherlock had administered a dose of Calpol a few minutes earlier so the pain relief was beginning to kick in and he could feel her temperature lowering, too.

He strolled into the kitchen and opened the freezer side of their big American fridge freezer, fishing a stiff washcloth from one of the drawers. Soaking clean washcloths in sterile water, and then freezing them, provided a handy source of soothing chews for the infant. Settling her in the crook of his elbow, he presented her with the washcloth which she took in a double palmer grasp, and began chomping at the edge that he pushed between her lips.

'Is that better?' he asked, with an enquiring look. 'Yes, that's much better, isn't it,' he replied to himself. Wandering back into the dining room and then the sitting room, he stood by the front bay window and looked out at the garden, dimly illuminated by the streetlights. He was wondering how Arthur had fared on his trip back to the county of his birth.

His brother's decision to make a permanent commitment to his partner of nearly eighteen months had come as quite a surprise to the Consulting Detective but then Sherlock had never been able to deduce Mycroft the way he could deduce most other people. The Ice Man was exceptionally good at hiding his true feelings. But he approved whole-heartedly of his older sibling's choice of life partner. He liked the young man very much and he had never seen Mycroft happier.

There was just the small matter of announcing their intentions to the world. In days gone by, an admission of homosexuality would be professional suicide in public life, especially for someone in Mycroft's line of work. Even after it was no longer illegal, in Britain, to be gay, it was still seen as a point of vulnerability, a pressure point, that might be exploited by foreign powers to undermine or compromise an individual.

Fortunately, this was no longer the case and Mycroft had never had to hide his sexual orientation. But Arthur had not had such an easy ride. The young man had explained to Sherlock, the last time they met up, that his family were still unaware of his sexuality, that he feared his father especially would find it difficult to come to terms with such a revelation.

But, since he and Mycroft were about to tie the knot, the time had come to bite the bullet, take the bull by the horns and beard the lion in his den. After that overdose of metaphor, which had caused them both to chuckle rather hysterically, Sherlock had wished his future brother-in-law good luck with his personal mission. Standing now by the window, in the darkened sitting room, Sherlock hoped things had gone better than anticipated but, in his experience, this was rarely the case. Leopards do not change their spots – more metaphor – except, perhaps, to go darker.

An even greater surprise, to the younger Holmes, had been his brother's selecting him for the role of Best Man. He found the prospect rather daunting but he intended to be the best Best Man that he could be. With typical Holmesian application, he had set about gathering data. This was his main occupation, at the present time - teaching himself how to be a Best Man. He had done a great deal of research, on line, into the duties of a Best Man and had purchased several books on the subject, too, including one on how to write a Best Man's speech. No one could ever accuse him of taking his responsibilities in this enterprise lightly.

He glanced down at the baby in his arms and saw that she was sleeping, at last. He carried her up the main stairs to the Nursery and laid her, gently, in her cot, removing the now defrosted washcloth from her grip and draping the duvet lightly over her little body. Bending down to drop a gentle kiss on her brow, he then exited the room, pulling the door to, but not closed, behind him.

He crossed the dark landing and entered the master bedroom. In the faint light from the window, he could make out the low mound, in the bed, that was Molly. He discarded his dressing gown, onto the bedroom chair, and slipped under the duvet, moulding his body to that of his wife. She curled into him, without waking, and he wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin, breathing a deep sigh, as he surrendered himself to sleep.

ooOoo

**Some calm before the storm, folks. Enjoy it while it lasts! **


	6. Stolen Chapter Five

**I must be going soft. Here's another fluffy chapter. Enjoy!**

**Chapter Five**

Saturday afternoon was spent at the Village Fete, for which Mycroft was nominally the host, since it was held on his land, but he had very little to do with any of the planning. The village had a Fete Committee, who handled all the preparations, and they liaised with Charles Meadows, the Estate Manager.

It was a very traditional fete, with all-age attractions like an Aunt Sally stall, Guess the Weight of the Pig, Tombola and Wellie Wanging. There was a mini Gymkhana, a Dog Show and a little Sports Day, for the younger children, with novelty races, such as the Egg and Spoon, the Sack Race and the Three-legged Race. For the adults, there were the more serious competitions for flower arranging, fruit and vegetable growing, jam-making and baking. For entertainment, there was a Punch and Judy puppet show, a brass band and a cream tea tent which, as well as serving the traditional scones and jam, also offered strawberries and cream. And the local ice cream van always put in a profitable appearance.

Previously, Mycroft had attended as a matter of duty, being the local landowner, but since the twins arrived – and then Arthur – it had become a very popular point in the family's social calendar. Katy and Charlie absolutely loved the event and looked forward to it for days, especially now that they were more able to participate, actively.

In the past, Mycroft had been required to present the prizes for the adult competitions, but he had happily delegated that responsibility to Arthur, who was so much better at it than he was, as he could always think of the right thing to say to the runners-up. Mycroft preferred to officiate at the Sports Day prize giving, because the children were usually happy just to get a prize, regardless of the place.

The village fete went off swimmingly. The weather was perfect, the brass band played cheerful tunes and the ice cream van sold out – always a good indicator of a successful show. Then Sunday was a family day, with a visit to Red Post Farm, a Rare Breeds Centre, of which Mycroft was patron, where the children could see rare breed farm animals, including pigs, cattle, sheep, goats, equines and poultry. So it was two very tired little tots who were put to bed by Daddy and Poppah, on Sunday night.

On Monday morning, life returned to normal, with Mycroft and Arthur being driven to London by Mr Orgreave, the family chauffeur, Mycroft to his office and Arthur to the Regents Campus of the University of Westminster, where he was three weeks into a six week summer school, in preparation for beginning his post-graduate Cognitive Rehabilitation MSc course, in September.

His Nursing Degree and clinical practice had qualified him for acceptance on the MSc course but he had been advised to complete this short prep course on research skills, to gain some experience of experimental design, statistical analysis and report writing, and fill certain gaps in his knowledge and experience. The cost of both the MSc and the Summer School had been met by Mycroft – a pre-wedding present to Arthur.

The first two weeks of Summer School had been taken up with attending classes; the third was a study week. He had come to regret using two days of that week to go 'up north' – but that was water under the bridge, now. The next two weeks would be spent in class and the final week was set aside for the completion of the course assignment. Arthur was really enjoying studying again and the short course had whetted his appetite for the one-year full time MSc course, to follow.

The working week passed by fairly routinely, with both men returning home to Colbert House in the evenings and travelling back to the city in the mornings but Friday afternoon saw a sudden change of plan, when Mycroft was advised that emergency meetings had been arranged, probably taking up most of the weekend, to deal with the latest scandal.

It had come to light that, during the 1980's, a dossier alleging the existence of a paedophile ring, right at the heart of Westminster, had been submitted to successive Home Secretaries during that era but no action taken. It appeared that there had been a monumental cover-up. Many years later, in the aftermath of the exposure of a high-profile TV personality as a serial sex offender, the dossier had resurfaced and been submitted for a review but, once again, no action had been taken on its contents. Now, the dossier had come to light once more and it had been found that over a hundred very significant files were, mysteriously, missing – possibly destroyed.

The news media were on the story like a pack of hounds, and the government needed to come up with a satisfactory response. Mycroft's skills were urgently in demand, once more, so a family weekend in the country was out of the question.

'That's OK,' Arthur replied, when Mycroft rang him with the bad news, between classes in the middle of Friday afternoon. 'I'll call home and ask Sara – or Michele – to bring the children into town. We can all spend the weekend in London. I'll do something fun with them, while you're saving the PM's bacon, and they'll still get to see you, in the evenings, perhaps, even if it's only for a bedtime story.'

'An excellent plan,' Mycroft agreed.

So, later that day, Mr Orgreave brought Kay and Charlie, chaperoned by both nannies, Michele and Sara, and delivered them to Daddy's apartment in Cadogan Square. The nannies then took a welcome weekend break in the capitol, which gave them the opportunity to catch up with friends and have a couple of nights out, and Poppah took charge of the twins.

The children rarely came to London so this was quite an adventure for them. Saturday morning, they were awake bright and early, charging into the master bedroom, squealing with excitement and scrambling up onto the bed. Arthur hid under the duvet and pretended to be asleep but neither Katy nor Charlie was taken in by the subterfuge.

'Wate UP, Poppah!' Charlie insisted, peeling back the duvet to expose Arthur's head.

'Opet your eyes!' demanded Katy, using her thumbs to try and prise his lids open.

Arthur screwed up his face and resisted their combined efforts as long as possible then, with a sudden roar, he opened his eyes and sat up, scooping up both children and hugging them to his sides.

'I've got you now, my little pretties!' he cackled, giving a creditable impression of the Wicked Witch, from the Wizard of Oz. 'Now, I'm going to EAT YOU!'

The two children shrieked and struggled, but could not escape 'the witch's' clutches, as Arthur made 'Nom, nom, nom' noises and rubbed his face on their little bellies.

Mycroft was in the shower, so temporarily avoided the toddler onslaught but, when he emerged from the bathroom, wearing his dressing gown and rubbing his receding hair with a towel, he became the prime target. Arthur released the little terrors and they hurled themselves, mercilessly, at their new victim. But Daddy was ready for them. Bending down, he caught one in each arm and hauled them off the ground, whirling around in a spin, emitting a high pitched, 'Wheeee!', which had both children giggling, helplessly.

'No, Daddy, stop, I dizzy!' squeaked Katy, eventually, so Mycroft teetered across the floor and collapsed backwards on to the bed, with both children held to his chest.

'Where we dohin' today, Daddy?' Charlie asked, once they all got their breath back.

'I believe you're going to the zoo, my little man,' Mycroft replied.

'Iz u tummin' too?' Katy chimed in.

'Sadly, no, my darling girl. Daddy has to go to work' – Mycroft pushed out his bottom lip to mimic his daughter's response to that revelation – 'but Poppah has a lovely day planned for you and I will make sure I'm back in time to tuck you into bed.'

'Now, dat id a pwomise, Daddy! U hab to keep a pwomise,' she insited, shaking a finger at him for emphasis.

Mycroft drew an 'X' over his left breast.

'Cross my heart, sweetness,' he replied, solemnly, pressing a fond kiss to Katy's rosy cheek.

'What for bwekfuss?' Charlie enquired of Arthur, who had abandoned the bed and pulled on his own dressing gown.

'Let's go and see,' Arthur replied, taking both children by the hand, 'and leave Daddy in peace to get ready for work.'

ooOoo

When Mycroft came through from the bedroom, wearing his customary charcoal grey three piece suit, breakfast was well under way. He gave each of his three loved ones a goodbye kiss, wished them all a lovely day and left for the 'office'. He had a breakfast meeting to attend, with the Home Secretary, so he did not stop to eat – although he did steal a cheeky bite of toast from Charlie, to a howl of protest.

Once everyone was fed, washed and dressed, the hastily planned zoo trip got underway. Unlike his future brother-in-law, Arthur had no qualms about pushing a baby buggy. This one was a stylish three-wheel, all-terrain model, in-line two-seater, in rich tomato red. The children both liked to sit in the front seat so they had learned to take turns – poll position being decided by the flip of a coin.

On this occasion, Charlie won the toss and smiled smugly as the family set off on the first leg of their journey, the ten minute walk to Sloane Square to take the Circle and District Line to Victoria. Two minutes later, they were changing on to the Victoria Line, bound for Oxford Circus. Here, they emerged onto the street and took the short walk to Margaret Street, where they caught the Number C2 bus to London Zoo. For two children from the English countryside, who either walked or were chauffeured everywhere, this journey on public transport was all part of the adventure.

They alighted from the bus on Prince Albert Road, almost directly opposite the entrance to the zoo. Arthur had bought the entry tickets on line so they avoided the queue for the Ticket Office and walked straight in. Once inside, both children abandoned the buggy to take the tour under their own steam. Here, the Proximity Rule came into effect. The twins had to stay within three strides of Poppah, or they would have to hold onto the buggy. They rarely needed reminding to stay close.

In the matter of choosing which animals to see, the cuter the better was the only criterion. So the Oriental three-clawed otters were high on that list, closely followed by meerkats, monkeys and tropical fish. This brought them neatly up to lunch time. The Animal Adventure Café was conveniently situated right next door to the Children's Zoo so that, once the little ones had refuelled and visited the loos, it was an easy hop to a guided tour through the four zones – Tree Top, Root, Splash and Touch, for a hands-on experience of the various environmental requirements of animals.

The last zone – Touch – provided an opportunity for grooming the goats and sheep and to say hello to the donkeys, llamas and miniature pigs. Being quite familiar with farm animals, the children were a little confused as to why anyone would want to groom a sheep or even a goat, for that matter. They would far rather have ridden the donkey than speak to it and Katy surprised the keeper by asking if the mini pigs tasted like normal pigs. He commented to Arthur that young visitors rarely associated the living animals with the food on their plate but he explained that these kids were country born and bred.

The last visit of the day was to Rainforest Life. This was an indoor exhibit, which included a 'Night Life' area, inhabited by free-flying bats, floor-dwelling rats and other nocturnal animals, such as bush babies. Both the children were fascinated by the 'flying mice', as they swooped around, noiselessly. There were bats roosting and hunting around Colbert House but the twins were usually asleep in bed before they put in an appearance, so this was a fitting finale to the day at the zoo.

Both children fell asleep, on the journey home, which rather negated Katy's advantage of sitting in the front buggy seat. But she didn't complain. Once home, they ate supper, took their baths and were just about to retire when Mycroft returned – in the nick of time – to read them a bedtime story. When he eventually emerged from the children's room, he found Arthur dozing on the sofa and a bottle of Merlot breathing in the decanter.

'How was your day?' Arthur asked, pouring them each a glass of wine and handing one to his partner before curling up beside him on the chesterfield.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his forehead, pensively.

'The depths of depravity to which some people can sink and still stand tall and proud and preach to others about how to live their lives will, I fear, never cease to amaze me!' he replied, ruefully.

'That bad, eh?'

'No, worse,' was the enigmatic response. 'But let's not talk about it. Tell me about the Zoo.'

Arthur leant back against Mycroft, who wrapped his arm around the other man, as he began his account of their fun day out.

ooOoo


	7. Stolen Chapter Six

**Chapter Six **

Sunday morning, Mycroft had already left for more damage limitation meetings and Arthur was up to his elbows in scrambled egg, as the children tucked into their breakfast, when his mobile rang. It was Molly.

'Arthur, hello' she greeted him. 'Are you in London?'

Arthur was about to respond when he heard Sherlock's voice in the background.

'They are in London, Molly.'

'We are in London, yes, Molly,' Arthur replied, with a smile.

'Oh, good! Do you have any plans for this afternoon?'

'I told you they would be in London,' came Sherlock's voice again.

'Yes, alright, Mr Smartarse. What do you want, a medal?' Molly hissed.

'Just saying,' he replied.

'No, we don't have any plans this afternoon – well, none that can't be changed,' Arthur cut in.

'We're test driving the new garden with a barbeque. We wondered if you and the children would like to join us. And Mycroft, too, of course, if he's free.'

'He's not free, Molly, he'll be at No 10.' Sherlock again

'Hang on a minute! Is Sherlock barbequing?' Arthur exclaimed.

'Fat chance!' Molly replied. 'He wouldn't be caught dead in an apron where the neighbours might see him. That would really ruin his public image!'

'I am still here, Molly, and I'm not deaf!' Sherlock's baritone huffed, indignantly.

Arthur chuckled at the mental image of Sherlock in an apron.

'Mycroft is in talks with Cabinet ministers, Moll, has been all weekend,' he explained. 'Tell Mr Know-it-all he can have a Brownie Point. And the children and I would love to come. What time would you like us?'

'Just as soon as you're ready, Arthur. Come for the whole day,' Molly replied and they hung up.

Poppah turned to the little ones and announced,

'Eat up, guys, we're off to see your cousins!' and the twins cheered and clapped.

ooOoo

Arthur and the children arrived by cab at the Hooper-Holmes' new home in Smithfield, to an enthusiastic welcome from William and Freddie. Sherlock greeted his brother's partner with a firm handshake.

Molly was in the sitting room, bottle feeding Violet.

'Still nipping, is she?' Arthur observed.

'Fraid so,' Molly replied, with a wry grin, as the young man leaned in for a one-armed hug from his future sister-in-law.

'She is gorgeous, Molly, really. Look at those eyes!' he marvelled.

'Oh, she's a charmer, alright,' Molly agreed, glowing with pride. 'She already rules the roost in this household. Lord help us when she gets to be a teenager!'

'Lord help any prospective boyfriends! They will need nerves of steel!' Uncle Arthur predicted. 'And perhaps a bullet-proof vest?'

Molly nodded and laughed. Violet kept her opinion to herself.

Arthur volunteered to take charge of the barbeque and went outside to get things started. Sherlock was already out there, with the other four children and Marie, the resident nanny. She was being entertained by Katy, who was regaling her with a full and frank account of their visit to the zoo, the day before. Freddie and Charlie, in cycling helmets, were playing on the Hooper-Holmes boys' balance bikes – Sherlock having adjusted William's bike seat down to accommodate Charlie's leg length – and were scooting around the big back garden, taking full advantage of all the available space, under Sherlock's watchful eye.

At the same time, William was bending his father's ear on his favourite subject – bees. This new interest was a natural progression from his long-standing love of ants, to which bees were related. William was desperate to have a bee hive in the garden and never missed an opportunity to extol the virtues of such a venture.

'Down there, amongst the apple trees would be the perfect spot, Daddy. In the Spring, when the Queen bees come out of hibernation, they would have a ready-made food source, with the apple blossom. And all the gardens around here would benefit from the bees pollinating their flowers. Mummy said she wanted to grow vegetables and the bees would help with that, too. And we could collect some of the honey they make – not all of it, of course, because the bees would need it for food, too – but some of it. We could have it on our toast, for breakfast.'

Unbeknown to William, his parents had already discussed the matter of keeping bees and had been in touch with the local branch of the Bee Keepers Association, to find out what was entailed in hosting a hive. If they agreed to host a hive, a local bee keeper would set it up for them and provide them with the bees. They would also tend the hive and collect the honey. In return for hosting the hive, the family would be given a percentage of the honey yield.

Sherlock and Molly had decided to get a hive installed for William's seventh birthday and Sherlock had even signed up to do a course in beekeeping, so that he could help the budding apiarist to get more involved with the bees. But, of course, William had no idea about that, so he was still going for the big sell, much to the amusement of both his parents'.

'Did you know, Daddy that bees are members of the Apidae family, which includes honey bees and bumblebees and also stingless and carpenter bees? Bees are some of the most highly socially organised insects in the world, apart from ants and termites.'

'No, I didn't know that, Will. How very interesting,' Sherlock replied, po-faced, causing his eldest son to purse his lips and wrinkle his brow, wondering what else he could say to convince his dad of the necessity of getting a bee hive.

ooOoo

Arthur, it turned out, was a dab hand at the old barbequing, and soon had the coals glowing red and the bangers, burgers and steaks sizzling away, on top. Molly had insisted on cooking the chicken drumsticks in the oven but they were finished off over the coals to give them a barbequed flavour. The extended family were just about to sit down at the patio table and begin their alfresco banquet when Arthur's mobile rang in his back pocket. He fished it out. It was a text from Mycroft.

_All done here. On my way. Ask Molly to set an extra place for lunch._

Holmes Major arrived not ten minutes later and was handed a large Pimms by his sibling.

'Did you mix this?' he enquired, after taking a satisfying sip.

'I did,' Sherlock replied.

'You never cease to amaze me with your hidden talents,' the elder Holmes exclaimed.

'Mixing a cocktail is hardly rocket science, dear brother. It's not even chemistry. It's just…following instructions,' Sherlock replied, archly.

'Well, you followed them very well,' Big Brother patronised him still further.

After lunch, Molly uncovered the paddling pool and the four older children all stripped off and dived in, playing water games with plant sprays and the lawn sprinkler, while the adults sat around the table, for a post-prandial chat and more Pimms.

Arthur explained to Molly how things had not gone as well as he'd hoped on his trip home, but he didn't go into a lot of detail. In truth, it was painful enough to think about the things his father had said, never mind talk about them. Molly was sensitive to this and didn't press him, for which he was immeasurably grateful.

Sherlock and Mycroft's topic of conversation was equally sombre.

'This latest scandal will be the most damning yet,' the Government man mused. 'Several very high profile individuals are implicated, names the public will recognise.'

'So what do your lot intend to do?' Sherlock asked.

'They are not _my lot_, as you choose to put it, but I've advised the Government to come clean and set up a full-scale enquiry, no holes barred. It may be painful but it's the only way to preserve even a semblance of credibility.'

Sherlock nodded his agreement with that analysis.

'And it's not just members of the ruling party of the time that's involved,' Mycroft went on. 'No one gets off scot free on this one, you mark my words. Commons, Lords, senior judges – pillars of the Establishment! This one is set to run and run.'

'Well, it was but a matter of time, was it not? We've had the exposure of the church and the world of entertainment. Now it's the turn of Parliament and the Judiciary. It does beg the question, who next? The Royal family, perhaps?'

'Sherlock!' Mycroft exclaimed and his brother held up a placatory hand. Clearly, there were some lines that even Mycroft preferred not to cross, no matter how obvious the route.

'Ah well, the excesses of the '80's come back to bite us,' Shrlock said, instead.

'Tip of the ice berg, my dear brother, tip of the ice berg,' Mycroft agreed.

ooOoo

On Monday morning, Mr Orgreave returned, with the nannies, to take the children back to Hertfordshire, as Mycroft and Arthur began another working week.

'We'll see you this evening, my darlings,' Mycroft assured the twins, as they hugged and kissed goodbye, rather tearfully.

A staff car came for Mycroft and, at Arthur's request, dropped him at Piccadilly Circus, to walk the short distance to the Regent campus of the University of Westminister. He had no desire to be seen, by his fellow students, being chauffeured to college in a limousine. He gave his fiancé a peck on the cheek before stepping out of the vehicle.

'What time will you finish today?' Mycroft asked.

'Not sure,' Arthur replied. 'I'll call you. Have a good day.'

'And you,' Mycroft amswered, with a warm smile – not the lizard one he reserved for professional circumstances, as a 'minor official' in the British Government – then he turned in his seat to watch Arthur stride off down Regents Street, as the staff car filtered back into the traffic and headed for Whitehall.

ooOoo

Unsurprisingly, it was a very busy day, as the Government implemented the plan that had been devised to manage the major situation that had arisen over the weekend. Mycroft was in and out of meetings, press conferences and briefing sessions all day, with barely a moment in between to draw breath, until it was suddenly four o'clock and he was back in his office. Anthea tapped on his door and delivered a cup of his favourite tea.

'Ah, thank you, my dear. What a welcome sight that is,' he exclaimed, taking the cup and saucer from her hand. 'Oh, did Arthur ring?'

'No, sir,' Anthea replied, succinctly.

'Oh!' was Mycroft's puzzled response.

'Were you expecting a call, sir?'

'Yes, as a matter of fact. He was going to let me know what time to send the car.'

Mycroft fished his mobile from his inside breast pocket, to check for missed calls, though he knew his phone had been diverted to his office number all day, so any call would have been picked up by his PA. There were no missed calls and no texts either. He thumbed the Mail app and flicked through the alerts. None were from Arthur. Placing the cup and saucer on his desk, Mycroft flicked back to Phone and Contacts, speed dialling Arthur's number. It went straight to Voicemail.

Throughout this sequence of actions, Anthea watched her boss's facial expression move from mild discomfiture, through rising disconcertion to deep perturbation. Her own feelings mirrored those of Mycroft, though she gave no visible indication of that fact.

'Should I alert the team, sir?' she asked.

Mycroft rubbed his forehead and pressed his lips together. Arthur knew that a promise to call could not be taken lightly. Security was always high on the agenda and he was well aware of the need to follow protocols. If he said he would call, then he would call, unless…

'Call Tech, first. Ask them to locate his phone.'

Anthea nodded and exited the office, as Mycroft dialled Arthur's number, again. She crossed to her own desk and picked up the internal phone, tapping in the code for Technical Services. She was answered immediately – as Mycroft's PA, a call from her was top priority.

'Locate cell phone Alpha Beta,' she said, her calm tone belying the urgency of the request. She tapped her fingers on the edge of her desk as she waited for the reply. It took only one minute but the seconds seemed to drag.

'Not found. Repeat, not found,' came the clipped response.

A dozen possibilities flashed through Anthea's mind – dead battery, signal black spot, on the Underground, University blocker device, dropt down loo, and so on – but Anthea's sixth sense was telling her that none of these were the case.

'Check the tracker devices,' she said and waited again, fingers still tapping, impatiently.

'No signal. Repeat, no signal.'

'Thank you,' she replied and cut the connection, keying in a different code and, when the call was answered, saying,

'Scramble Alpha Beta Team. Yellow Alert.'

She hung up immediately and dialled another code.

'Car for Mr Holmes, at once,' she snapped.

ooOoo

**And so it begins.**

**BTW: In the same way that I moved Stalybridge into Lancashire, I have moved a little bit of Hackney into Smithfield. I haven't bothered to flag it up before, but this story is an AU and in this AU, there is a city square road, on the edge of Smithfield that is forever Hooper-Holmesian! If you would like to see the prototype for this square, look up De Bouvoir Town, Hackney. It's lovely! And it does have a local branch of the Bee Keepers Association, too!**


	8. Stolen Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

When Anthea stepped back into Mycroft's office, one glance at her expression told him everything he needed to know. He was on his feet, with his umbrella clasped firmly in his hand, and out of the office door, immediately. On the way down in the antique lift, Anthea filled him in on the details. No signal from Arthur's tracker was the most damning evidence that something was amiss.

Since William and Molly's abduction, four years previously, the devices used to tag Persons of Importance had been refined and miniaturised, employing nanotechnology. They were now no bigger than the chips used on family pets – but far more sophisticated. They could be fitted into any item of clothing and would transmit the location of the garment and – by default – the wearer.

They were inertia sensitive but even micro-movements, such as a pulse or heartbeat, were sufficient to maintain transmission. They were activated when the wearer put the item of clothing on and deactivated by the absence of such movements, thirty minutes after the garment was removed. This ensured that the system was not overloaded by a wardrobe full of tagged clothing. However, the devices could be remotely reactivated, to locate them, in the absence of a pulse or heartbeat.

So, if no signal was being received, it meant that either Arthur was no longer wearing his clothing or he no longer had a pulse. Neither of these options was very attractive to Mycroft but, of the two, he would obviously prefer the former.

Arthur had agreed to have devices fitted into his jackets, jeans and shoes, more to placate Mycroft than because he had any concern for his own safety, though he had drawn the line at shirts, socks and underwear. He acknowledged that his relationship with the Government official made him a possible target for terror organisations or any other groups or individuals who wished to exploit that connection but he didn't want that to rule his life. However, he was careful and never took unnecessary risks, relying on his military training to alert him to environmental dangers.

Mycroft kept reminding himself of this fact, as he exited the lift and the building and stepped into his car, with Anthea at his side, tapping away on her Blackberry, receiving Intel and relaying details of the current operation to Mycroft and his instructions back to the team members, the first one being to reactivate the tracker devices and locate Arthur's clothes and trainers.

When the two men in black suits and dark glasses entered the Reception Area of the Regents campus of the University of Westminster, the young man behind the desk, wearing a name badge which read 'Paul', looked up with a helpful smile.

'We are looking for one of your Summer School students,' said the Lead Agent, showing his id badge, before the receptionist could utter a sound.

The young man peered at the badge then looked back up at the agent, visibly blanching.

'Who are you looking for?' he asked, in a weak voice, visions of jihadists dancing in his head.

'Mr Arthur Brocklehurst,' replied Agent Delaney.

That name rather clashed with Paul's expectations, so he did not react, immediately.

'We need to find him, rather urgently,' prompted the agent. 'Can you tell us which classroom he is in, at the moment?

'Oh, sorry!' the young man exclaimed and quickly typed Arthur's name into his desk top PC. There was a short pause, while the system did its thing, then the receptionist frowned and said,

'Oh.'

'Oh?' enquired Agent Delaney.

'Well, sir, he's not here or, at least if he is, he's not in class.'

Paul turned the monitor screen so that the agents could read it. It showed Arthur's attendance marks, for that day, on the electronic registration system. It showed green 'Present' entries for all the morning classes but, after lunch, all the entries were red 'Absent'.

'If he'ss not in class, where else might he be?' the agent asked.

'Well, he might be in the Refectory, or the Coffee Shop or the Library…' Paul counted off on his fingers all the places where the students tended to hang out.

'Do you have a public address system, here?' the Lead Agent asked.

'Not exactly,' Paul replied. 'We have IT monitors in all areas. We can post messages and announcements on those, for people to read.'

'That may be sufficient,' said Delaney, taking out a notebook and scribbling a message, which he handed to the receptionist, saying, 'Please post this on your system. Big, bold font, please.'

Paul read the note and frowned but typed it into the message board, anyway. The screen behind the desk displayed it, immediately.

'_Ice pop for Albie, ready to collect_.'

In the meantime, the second agent had been transmitting to Anthea the information that Paul had provided and she had passed it on to Mycroft, as his car sped towards the university campus.

'No, he would not miss classes from choice,' he declared. 'He's completely invested in this course. We need to find out where he went at lunch time. Interview all his classmates. What format is their CCTV?'

Anthea relayed the instruction and question and the second agent showed the text to Delaney

'We will need to interview all his classmates,' Delaney said, nodding at the other agent, who checked the PC monitor for the room number of the class Arthur should have been attending, and then strode away in the direction of the lifts. Two more, similarly dressed individuals, who had been loitering by the main door, joined him in the lift as the sliding doors closed.

'What format is your CCTV?' Delaney added.

'It's a digital system, sir. The images are stored on the network but only security and the senior staff can access them,' Paul explained.

'We need to speak with your Head of Security,' Agent Delaney replied.

While the receptionist was summoning that person, the main door opened and Mycroft strode in, with Anthea close behind. As he entered the Reception Area, he spotted the message board and the phrase flashing across the screen.

Mycroft had established this coded message with Arthur when they first became intimate. The seemingly innocuous phrase told Arthur that there was an imminent threat. The circumstances at the time when he received the message would predetermine how he should respond, but this must always be immediately.

Mycroft had hoped this code would never need to be used, and now that time had come, it seemed likely that the horse had already bolted. There was only a very outside chance that Arthur's disappearance off the radar had an innocent cause. Seeing those words written large on the wide screen almost made him stumble but, by the power of will alone, he kept his stride even and approached the desk.

Paul looked at the new arrival and quailed again. Whatever was going on, here – and he had no idea what that was – this scary man was clearly at the heart of it.

'Can the CCTV images be accessed from this PC?' Mycroft asked, without any preamble.

The receptionist blinked rapidly, his mind a complete blank, shocked into inertia by the utterly bizarre nature of this situation. Mycroft staring at him, his lips compressed, was not helping at all. Anthea stepped forward and gave the young man a winning smile.

'Can we view the CCTV footage from your PC, Paul?' she asked, encouragingly.

'No, you can't and why would you want to?' came an authoritative voice from the right of the reception desk. Everyone looked in that direction as a tall man with a military bearing strode up to the desk and glared at Mycroft, Anthea and Agent Delaney.

'Sir, the building is secure,' Anthea informed Mycroft, referring to a new notification on her Blackberry.

Excellent,' Mycroft replied then, turning to the Head of Security - for that was in deed the identity of the new-comer – he said,

'We require you to evacuate the building, immediately.'

'On whose authority?' snorted the Security man.

'On my authority,' Mycroft replied, as Anthea opened her shoulder bag and removed a folded sheet of paper, which she handed to the ex-Redcap, who unfolded it, looked at the crest at the head of the paper, and gasped, audibly.

'Please set off the fire alarm, Mr…'

'Cox, sir' the man barked, practically jumping to attention and then striding to the nearest fire alarm point, and whacking the glass with the side of his fist. The fire alarm rang out instantly and very loudly.

The Receptionist gaped at the four other people in turn and then asked no one in particular,

'Should we all evacuate?'

'You should leave the building, Paul,' Anthea replied, kindly, and chivvied the young man toward the nearest exit.

'Now, Mr Cox, we need access to your CCTV records,' Mycroft reminded him. The Head of Security began to tap at the keyboard on the front desk.

ooOoo

As the building slowly emptied, every person leaving from every exit was photographed, automatically, by the cap-mounted cameras carried by the SO15 personnel supervising the evacuation. Soon the building was entirely empty, except for the members of the course that Arthur was attending and the staff who had taught the classes that day. They had all been detained by the Special Forces agents and were now in the process of being interviewed, individually, about Arthur's activities that day.

Simultaneously, the Tech guys had arrived and were scanning the college CCTV footage for any sightings of Arthur since Mycroft had dropped him off, that morning, using the FaxRex software to identify him, even from a partial image. Another team were implementing the same protocol with the street CCTV.

At the same time, the tracker devices in Arthur's clothes and trainers had been reactivated and were now being sought using remote scanners, in ever widening circles out from Ground Zero, which was the university campus. Similarly, the scanner implanted in Arthur's mobile phone had also been activated and was being sought by the same means.

The Terror Alert had been raised to 'Critical' and the relevant bodies were currently trawling through recent mobile phone and Internet metadata, scanning for communication patterns, key words or phrases, any clues as to who might have perpetrated the kidnap of a Person of Importance to a high ranking official. Diplomatic and Westminster Protection had been increased for all potential targets and, most specifically, Mycroft's nearest and dearest.

Anthea had called Sherlock, herself, explained what had occurred and advised him that he, Molly and the children would be collected and taken to Colbert House, where their safety could be better assured.

'I agree. Molly and the children should go, at once, but not me. I'm staying.'

'He said you'd say that, Sherlock, but he says everything possible is being done. Every resource available to Her Majesty's Government has been mobilised. Your services really are not needed,' Anthea related, as Mycroft had instructed.

'Tell him 'good try', Anthea, but I'm not fooled for a moment. I know he just wants to keep me safe. Tell him to send another car for me. I'm coming to help.'

Mycroft and Anthea returned to the staff car rather than standing about in the college reception. The operation could be co-ordinated just as well from there, away from prying eyes. Mycroft was more grateful than ever for the heavily tinted windows of the limousine. The strain was beginning to show around the eyes of the Iceman.

No one but Anthea was allowed to see him look like this, and even she had only witnessed it on the rarest of occasions. But Arthur had not been seen, now, for more than four hours. And so far, there was not a single clue as to what had happened to him.

Another car drew up alongside 'Mission Control', having been allowed through the cordon that had been placed around this part of the University campus. Sherlock stepped out of that car and Mycroft's driver opened the rear door of Mycroft's vehicle to admit the younger Holmes, then closed it behind him.

Sherlock dropped into the jump seat, opposite his brother and fixed him with a critical eye. What he saw prompted him to lean across the intervening gap and gather up the other man in a wordless embrace. Mycroft pressed his brow into Sherlock's collar and held his breath, fearful that any exhalation would become a sob. Anthea stared intently at her Blackberry, scrolling through the steady stream of feedback pouring in from all the groups and individuals involved in the operation.

As Sherlock sat back in his seat, a new message came in.

'Sir, his clothes have been located,' Anthea stated.

'Just the clothes?' Mycroft asked, closing his eyes and leaning back against the head rest.

'Yes, sir.'

'Where are they?' Sherlock enquired.

'A clothing bank, in a car park, just off the North Circular at Brent Cross. The local police are collecting them.'

'Tell them not to contaminate them. We need trace!' Sherlock snapped. 'And to send them straight to Bart's…'

'No, Sherlock!' Mycroft cut in, back in the zone. 'Send them to Westminster. They are the centre of excellence for this sort of thing. Leave it to them. I need you for the work others can't do.'

Sherlock was about to protest but shut his mouth, abruptly. His need to be active, to be involved, was clouding his judgement. Mycroft was right. He had skills that others did not.

Sir, Arthur's phone had been located, too. It's at Waterloo Station.'

'In a bin?'

'No, sir, in a pocket – of a homeless person.'

Sherlock's ears pricked and he looked at his brother, eagerly.

'Yes, you deal with that,' Mycroft agreed. 'But take Protection!' he called after the consulting detective, as he jumped from the one car and leaped into the other.

'No, I'll call John Watson. He's all the protection I need,' Sherlock yelled back, then slammed the car door, as the vehicle pulled away.

ooOoo


	9. Stolen Chapter Eight

**I have raised the rating of this story to M.**

**Please be warned!**

**This and some subsequent chapters will contain violence, profanity and descriptions of torture. **

**Chapter Eight**

Arthur gradually regained awareness. He lay still, as his senses came back on stream, one by one. First came touch. He was laid on his back, covered with something – a sheet, maybe a duvet, possibly a blanket. Next came sight. Ambient light was filtering through his eye lids, tinted pink by the capillaries in his skin. He tried to open his eyes but could not. He tried to move his hand but, again he could not. His body felt weak and flaccid, muscle tone low. Either the remnants of sleep paralysis or, possibly, the after-effect of some sort of anaesthetic, he decided. His mental faculties were clearly recovering more rapidly than his physical ones.

He made a point of relaxing, not trying to fight the lack of physical control. Whatever the cause, it would wear off eventually. Since his brain seemed to be working quite well, he focused his attention on deducing his situation. He had no idea where he was or how he got there but, since he assumed he was in a bed, perhaps he'd had an accident and was in hospital

He listened. Could he be in hospital? If he had been unconscious, in hospital, he would be attached to a heart monitor, at the very least, and would be able to hear the steady beep. There was no beep. He couldn't hear any of the familiar sounds he would associate with a hospital. In fact, he couldn't hear anything familiar at all. No birdsong, no traffic, no voices, no machinery.

He tried to open his eyes and, this time, it worked. They cracked open, just a sliver, and he was assaulted by bright light from a nearby source. He turned his head away and moved his hand to shield his eyes. He could move now.

'You're awake!' said a voice he did not recognise.

A large mass moved into his field of vision but his sight was still blurred so he could not distinguish any features. He tried to speak but his mouth was dry and his tongue felt thick. He couldn't articulate words but he could vocalise, so he did, giving a guttural groan which he hoped would convey that he needed water.

Whether by good luck or good management, the dark shape moved to his side and pressed the spout of a drinking bottle between his lips and squeezed a squirt of water into his mouth. It tasted like nectar. He swallowed most of it, dribbled out some, and the person squeezed another squirt, which he drank gratefully. Reaching up his hand, he took hold of the bottle and tipped it himself, taking several deep draughts. When his hand dropped, the person took the bottle back.

'Is that better?' the voice enquired.

'Yes, thank you,' Arthur breathed.

'Good, because we want you to feel better. That is our dearest wish.'

Arthur raised his hand again and rubbed his eyes and then blinked, slowly. As his vision cleared, he could see the other person in the room.

The man was quite tall, well-built, late thirties maybe early forties, dark, wavy hair, clean-shaven, dressed in a polo shirt and tracksuit bottoms. He looked like he could be a personal trainer, perhaps.

'Who are you?' Arthur asked.

'A friend,' the man replied, with a smile.

Arthur thought about that then shook his head.

'I don't know you. You're not my friend.'

The man looked down and smiled again.

'Perhaps not now but soon you will know me and you will see that I am your friend - a good friend.'

Arthur stared at the man for a moment, then turned away and visually scanned his environment. He was in a smallish room – maybe three metres square – with a high ceiling. It had one long, slim window, positioned up near the ceiling and this was the source of the bright light.

The furniture was clinical – a metal hospital bed, a treatment couch, a stainless steel sink, a long counter on one wall and a thick fire door, with a self-closing hinge at the top. The floor was blue vinyl, non-slip, by the look of it, like most modern hospitals.

But it didn't sound like a hospital and it didn't smell like a hospital. And he should know, having spent a lot of his adult life in one hospital or another.

He lifted the blanket that covered him and looked down at his body. He was wearing hospital scrubs and his feet were bare. He wondered where his clothes were. He wondered where he was.

'Where am I?' Arthur asked, looking back at the man, who still stood there, smiling.

'You are somewhere safe,' he replied.

Arthur snorted with ironic mirth.

'I was perfectly safe where I was,' he said. 'Why am I here?'

'You're here to be saved,' his new friend replied.

Arthur frowned, and pondered and pondered some more, then he shook his head, as realisation dawned,

'Oh, for fuck's sake!' he groaned. 'You're a fucking Reparation Therapist, aren't you!'

'Well done, Arthur. Your dad said you were smart. He wasn't wrong. And that fills me with joy because a smart man like you will soon learn the error of his ways.'

Arthur pushed the blanket away and tried to sit up but, immediately, he felt dizzy and sick, and flopped back onto the pillow.

'What the fuck did you give me?' he asked, weakly, rubbing his forehead and swallowing down the nausea that threatened to overwhelm him.

'We just gave you something to keep you quiet, so we could bring you here without anyone getting hurt. You're a big man, Arthur, and a trained soldier so we couldn't risk any injuries. And we didn't want a fuss, either.'

'I bet you didn't, you mad bastard,' Arthur muttered, mostly to himself.

He was still trying to piece together some sort of timeline, trying to recall his last cogent memory before he woke up in this place. He couldn't get a firm handle on anything – probably a side effect of the drug they had given him. That narrowed the options down a bit. He could think of a few possibilities.

Now that he had regained more tactile sensation, more proprioceptive awareness, he could feel a sore spot on the back of his neck, just behind his right ear. He reached up to rub the spot and his hand came away with a few flakes of dried blood on it.

'You stuck me with a needle,' he declared.

'It was a sterile needle,' the man replied.

'Well, thank fuck for that! But, how fucking irresponsible! You know nothing about me, nothing about my medical history! I could have been allergic to that crap you pumped into me, you fucking dick head!' If he hadn't felt so weak, he would have been shouting but the best he could manage was an irascible hiss.

His new best friend looked perturbed.

'Arthur, I must ask you to control your language. I find your use of expletives quite offensive,' he warned.

Arthur rolled onto his side so he could look at the man without having to sit up, since that was really out of the question at the moment.

'Y'know what? I couldn't give a flying fuck about your sensibilities, you tosser. You just need to let me go.'

New Best Friend shook his head, sadly.

'That's not you talking, Arthur. That's the Devil. You have the Devil in you and you don't even know it. But I can drive the Devil out of you, Arthur. I can save you.'

'Oh, my fucking Christ!' Arthur groaned, closing his eyes and covering his face with his hands.

Without warning, he felt a crushing blow on his back and ribcage. It was so sudden, so powerful and so unexpected that it shocked him to the core and took his breath away. He gasped and curled into a ball, shielding his side with his hand and coughing, violently.

'That was very bad, Arthur,' the man said, a little sadly. 'That was the Devil talking, again. Taking the name of Christ in vain? Very bad.'

Arthur opened his eyes, looked at his assailant and saw the sjambok in the man's hand. Arthur recognised the heavy leather whip. He'd seen them being used by the herdsmen in South Africa, when he went on safari there, with a bunch of fellow soldiers, several years ago. He had also seen them, in news reels, being used by the South African Police for riot control, during the time of apartheid and he knew that some people in South Africa still carried them for self-defence. He had never thought he would ever learn what it felt like to be hit by one.

As the coughing eased and the pain began to fade, just a little, he glared at the face of his captor, loathing the chagrined expression he saw there.

'You have no idea how much you are going to regret doing that,' he hissed.

'No, Arthur, I won't regret it. I am sad I had to do it but it was necessary and for your own good and, ultimately, you will thank me for it.'

'You don't know who you are up against,' the prisoner growled. 'When my fiancé gets his hands on you, oh, you will pray to that god of yours, how you will pray.'

'Your fiancé? Do you mean this man who has corrupted your mind and infected your body with evil? I don't fear that man.'

'You should,' Arthur breathed and closed his eyes, shutting out the image of the leering man and his wicked weapon. In spite of everything, the pain, the trauma and the stress – or perhaps because of these – he felt dog tired, utterly exhausted. He breathed out, slowly, and took refuge in sleep.

ooOoo

**Well, now you know who took Arthur. This story is going to be very dark from here on, dealing with some very serious issues. But everything I describe in this story is practiced (illegally, of course) by Reparation or Conversion Therapists. I'm not making it up.**


	10. Stolen Chapter Nine

**Nothing graphic in this chapter.**

**Chapter Nine**

Sherlock's driver pulled up in a short-stay parking bay, at Waterloo Mainline Station and escorted his passenger inside, walking almost the full length of the concourse to reach the British Transport Police office. Sherlock presented himself at the door and was invited inside. The driver stayed outside and stood, on guard duty, scanning the station concourse for anyone or anything suspicious.

Sherlock was led through the tiny Reception Area, through a door with a key pad lock, the entry code of which he memorized automatically, and into a sort of holding area. This consisted of a long bench, which held one occupant – a scruffy, skinny, weaselly-looking individual with spiky, mid-brown hair, a stubbly chin and blood-shot eyes. Sherlock recognised him at once.

'Hello, Billy,' he said.

The young man, who had been sitting hunched up, in his mud-stained Parka coat, looking very fed up with life, looked up, sharply, at the sound of his name and fixed Sherlock with a desperate look.

'Mr 'Olmes! You gotta 'elp me, Mr 'Olmes! These bastards' go' it all wrong, as bloody usual!'

'Where's the phone?' Sherlock asked one of the two attending officers. The man reached over the counter of the 'Custody Suite', for want of a better description of this tiny space, fished out the phone, now in an evidence bag, and handed it to the detective. Sherlock looked at it closely. It was obviously Arthur's phone, because it contained the tracking chip, and it was now switched on – presumably because 'Billy' had switched it on. Sherlock didn't take it out of the bag, in order to preserve any trace evidence it may retain. But he was dying to scroll through the call, text and Internet history, to see if it could tell him anything about Arthur's fate.

Instead, he looked at the weaselly man. Billy Wiggins was one of Sherlock's Homeless Network. Petty thief, habitual drug user, opportunist. Formerly a Chemistry major at Imperial College, London, he had proven far too good a chemist for his own good. The recreational chemical compounds he manufactured had rather scuppered his formal education and future career.

He had been living rough on the streets of London for about two years, now, and had met Sherlock when he tried to pick his pocket, one day, and got more than he bargained for. First, Sherlock grabbed his roaming hand and twisted it, flipping the man over on his back, then put a well-shod foot on his chest, to hold him down.

'Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kick you in the trachea and leave you to choke to death,' Sherlock had enquired, in his most louche public school drawl.

'Cos you'll be done for murder,' Billy had squeaked.

'Look around,' Sherlock replied, looking round. 'No passers-by, no CCTV, no witnesses. They'll find you in the morning, another casualty of street violence. You'll get two lines in the Evening Standard and a pauper's burial in a communal grave. End of story.' He looked back down at the man under his foot.

'On the other hand, you might want to work for me,' he said, smiling broadly.

Billy was not sure which was more scary – this man threatening to kill him or this man grinning like a loon. While he was taking a vote on that, Sherlock took his foot off his chest and offered him his hand. Apprehensively, Billy took the hand and let the scary man pull him to his feet.

'What's your name?' he asked.

'They call me The Wig,' Billy replied.

Sherlock looked down his aristocratic nose, and said,

'No, they don't.'

'Well, they call me Wiggo,' he tried again.

'Nope,' replied Sherlock, with a loud pop on the 'p'.

'Wiggins, Bill Wiggins,' Billy admitted, resignedly.

'Right,_ Billy _' – Sherlock managed to put so much contempt into those two syllables – 'you seem like a pretty observant chap.'

Billy looked confused. This toff had only just met him. How could he know anything about him at all?

Sherlock discerned his thought processes and rolled his eyes.

'You chose the only CCTV black spot in the whole of this area for your target site, you knew exactly in which pocket I kept my wallet - and it isn't the one most people would use – and you knew not to try to take my phone…why was that. by the way?'

'Tha' model is abaht to be replaced by a new model. Nobody will want 'at model nah.'

'Exactly. But how did you know which model it was? You can't have seen it for more than a second. I was putting it in my pocket, as I turned into this alley.'

Billy shrugged.

'So, what d'you want me t' do f' you?'

'Just observe, watch, notice, and report back to me,' Sherlock replied.

'An' who 'r' you? The Fuzz?'

Sherlock snorted with derision.

'P-lease!' he scoffed.

In the here and now, Sherlock looked down at his erstwhile little helper and indicated the phone.

'Where did you get it, Billy?'

'Aht ov a bin, Mr 'Olmes.'

'What were you doing looking in a bin, Billy? You don't eat out of bins, do you?'

'Cause not! What d'you fink I am? Nah, I saw the geyser drop i' in there!'

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

'Tell me what happened…No! Better still, show me what happened,' he exclaimed and grabbed Billy by the arm, hooking him up off the bench and dragging him toward the exit.

''Old on a minute! Where you goin' with 'im?' demanded one of the Transport policemen. 'He's a felon!'

'No, he isn't, officer, he's a witness. He's done nothing illegal, unless you count stealing from a bin as a crime.'

'An' I was comin' to 'and i' in!' Billy protested.

'Don't over-egg the pudding,' Sherlock warned. 'There are limits to the credulity even of the police,' he muttered, as he swept out of the little police 'station', with Billy scuttling along in his wake.

Once back out in the concourse and reunited with the driver, who was doubling as Sherlock's body guard, the Consulting Detective whirled round on Billy.

'Right, which bin was it?' he demanded.

'Rahght dahn the ovva end,' Billy pointed, so they all trouped the full length if the concourse to the end where Sherlock had come in.

'Which bin?'

'That one, ovva dere,' Billy pointed.

Sherlock looked around. There was a CCTV camera in the vicinity but it was one that oscillated so it may not have been pointing in the right direction when the phone was dumped.

'Show me how it was done,' he snapped, giving Billy Arthur's phone, still in the evidence bag.

Billy walked over to the wall, by the entrance, opposite the bin.

'I wuz 'ere, riogh'?'

Sherlock nodded and stood where Billy had been standing when he saw the phone being dumped. The weaselly man then walked just outside of the station entrance and turned to walk back in.

'The geyser cams in 'ere, don't he, an' I sees 'im walk past the bin. An' just as 'e gets by the bin, he teks 'is 'and ahter 'is pocket' – Billy demonstrated the actions he was describing, walking toward the bin with his hands in his pockets, and pulling his left hand out, as he drew level with the bin – 'an' drops the phone in the bin.'

He dropped the phone into the bin, walked on a few strides, then stopped and turned back. Sherlock had already walked over to the bin and looked inside, seeing the phone, partially concealed under a couple of lighter items that had given way to the heavier object. He reached in and tool the phone out, looking at it in his hand.

'Alright, Billy, what did he look like, the man who dumped the phone.'

Billy screwed up his eyes and searched his visual memory for the correct image.

'OK, 'e wuz abaht six foot, kinda stocky, short 'air – like a US Marine, like – an wearin' camouflage trousers an' a sorta bomber jacke', but not leathah or denim. Just sorta greeny-grey, like wot you'd get from a campin' shop, y'know?'

Sherlock really didn't know but he thought that, even if the camera had not picked up the drop or the dropper, Billy's description should give them a fighting chance of spotting the perpetrator, on the CCTV, at some point across the concourse. They might even see where he went when he left the station.

Sherlock took a twenty pound note out of his wallet and showed it to Billy.

'Nice work, Billy,' he said. 'Now, you need to come with me. I want you to talk to an artist, so they can draw our man, OK?'

Billy nodded and gave a sly smile.

'There's a MacDonald's just over dere, boss. Maybe you could buy me a Big Mac and Fries?'

Sherlock turned to the driver and gave him the twenty.

'Go get him one of those – whatever it is – and bring it back here.' Sherlock was not about to give Billy his reward until he had completed his task.

'And a coffee?' Billy called after the driver.

'Maybe you could buy your own,' Sherlock muttered and walked away, back toward the parked car, with Billy trotting cheerfully beside him.

ooOoo

Once seated in the back of the car, with Billy in the jump seat – as far away as he could put him, short of in the boot - Sherlock told the driver to take him to St. Bart's, then took out his own phone and put Arthur's in his pocket. He dialled John Watson's number, again, and got the answerphone, as before. He tried to remember what shift John was working this week. Molly would have known but she was miles away, by now, in Hertfordshire, with the children.

Sherlock looked at his watch. It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening. Molly would be getting the children ready for bed. He wrote a text and sent it:

_Hug my babies for me. Tell them Daddy loves them very much. Ring me when you're free. Love you._

That was quite a quantum shift from back in the day, in terms of verbalising his emotions. He even surprised himself, sometimes, but this terrible thing that had happened to Arthur was a wakeup call for all of them about how fragile life could be. He didn't want to miss a single opportunity to tell the ones he loved just how much he loved them because it may be his last.

His rather morbid thoughts were disturbed by the ringing of his phone. It was John, returning his call, at last.

'Are you at work?' he asked, abruptly.

'Hello to you, too, Sherlock and, no, I'm not at work. I just finished. I'm on Days but we're a bit short staffed so I did a couple of extra hours to help out. What can I do for you?'

'Arthur's been snatched,' Sherlock announced, unceremoniously.

'He's what? When? How?'

'Today, from the university, we think, and how? We don't know yet, or by whom, for that matter. We are assuming it's a terror group or perhaps someone with an axe to grind over this latest child abuse scandal, although how they think kidnapping Mycroft's boyfriend is going to have any influence there, God knows. And, of course, it could just be some rogue fanatic, operating alone, and those are the worst kind, because they don't need to communicate with anyone.'

'It can't just be one person, Sherlock,' John interjected.

'Why not?' the detective asked, wondering if he had missed some vital clue that John had spotted – however unlikely that might be.

'Arthur's not exactly a lightweight, is he? He's a big lad and a fit one, too. It would have taken more than one person to snatch him, even if he was unconscious.'

'What about at gun point?' Sherlock asked, just out of interest.

'No, Arthur would have disarmed them and then kicked the shit out of whoever it was. No, you've got to be talking three fairly strong blokes, at least, plus one to drive the getaway vehicle,' John concluded.

'Well, remind me to come to you, next time I need to plan a kidnapping. Are you sure there isn't something you're not telling me about your past?'

'Quite sure, but I do have combat experience. It's amazing what skills you pick up on a battlefield. And Arthur's been to both Iraq and Afghanistan. He's a seasoned veteran.'

By now, the car was nearly at St Bart's, making steady if slow progress through the late rush hour traffic.

'What do you need me to do?' John asked, as Sherlock had gone a bit quiet.

'Can you meet me at St Bart's?'

'Sure. Let me ring Mary and let her know. I'll see you there in about half an hour.'

They both rang off and Sherlock lapsed back into musing. He guessed that no significant progress had been made back at Ground Zero, or Mycroft would have been on the phone to tell him about it, but he needed to tell them about the phone dump in the bin so that the CCTV footage could be looked at.

He dialled Anthea's number and she answered. He passed on the details of the phone drop.

'I'm sending you someone who can describe the person who dumped the phone. Get him to talk to an artist, will you? And find him somewhere to stay. He's a valuable witness, so needs protecting – for now, at least.'

Billy looked up from his meal, on hearing himself being described thus.

'And make sure it's somewhere with a bath!' Sherlock added, then explained that he was going to St. Bart's to process the phone.

'How is my brother?' he asked, aware that Mycroft was sitting right next to Anthea and might even be able to hear him speaking.

'No change,' she replied, conveying volumes with just those two words.

'Tell him we will find him and we will get whoever has done this,' he muttered into his receiver.

'I will, Sherlock, thank you,' Anthea replied and hung up.

ooOoo

**Sorry but I couldn't resist borrowing that little exchange between Sherlock and Billy from His Last Vow. It was just too delicious! Don't sue me, Mofftiss!**


	11. Stolen Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

The staff car pulled up outside the entrance to the Pathology Department at St Bartholomew's Hospital, to drop off Sherlock. Before he stepped from the car, he reached across and lifted the coffee cup from Billy's hand.

Oi! I weren't done wiv tha'!' Billy protested.

'Yes, you were, and even if you weren't, you are now. I need a set of your prints for elimination,' Sherlock replied and slammed the car door, cutting off any further protests from the other man.

The car drew away. The driver had his instructions. He was to take Billy to a nominated safe house and stay with him until someone came to relieve him. Then – and only then – he was to give Billy the change from the twenty pound note, after the purchase of the Big Mac, fries and coffee. The forensic artist would be meeting them there and Billy could do his bit, describing the phone dumper, so that an image could be constructed. Then the witness would remain in protective custody until it was considered politic to let him out on the street again. Billy wasn't complaining.

Sherlock strode through the archway into the huge inner quadrangle, surrounded on all four sides by the buildings that housed the oldest still-working hospital in London. He turned to his right and entered the Pathology Department, taking the stairs two at a time to 'Molly's' lab. Of course, she wasn't there at the moment. She was still on Maternity Leave, and was in Hertfordshire anyway.

Sherlock wondered if her replacement, Dr Winterbotham, might be on duty, this evening. He'd had some dealings with her, in the last six months or so, and she had proven herself a perfectly competent pathologist, now that she had learned not to cut corners, but she lacked both Molly's experience , expertise and intuition. She was also rather prone to accept the flimsiest of evidence as conclusive, which Sherlock found extremely irritating.

As he pushed though the heavy fire door into the lab, he saw a figure standing at a work bench, head bowed over a microscope. She looked up as the door banged shut and her cheeks flushed, instantly. Sherlock heaved an inner sigh. This used to happen with Molly, all those years ago. She, thankfully, had gotten over the awkward stage, eventually, and now it was he who was often in awe of her. Dr Winterbotham, he knew, was still rather embarrassed about committing that awful faux pas, when she thought he and Molly were having an affair behind Molly's husband's back. He hoped she would put all that behind her soon. It was so tedious, how she blushed, every time he walked into the room.

'Mr Holmes!' Amanda Winterbotham squeaked, 'How can I help you?'

'You can't,' he declared. 'I need to process a mobile phone. I can do that on my own. All I need a space to work and to be left alone.'

He marched across to his preferred work space, pulled Arthur's phone from his pocket and placed it on the work bench, alongside Billy's empty coffee cup. He then assembled all the materials he would need, in order to lift Billy's prints from the cup and process the phone, and set about doing just that. Amanda watched him for a moment or two but, realising that he had no plans for any further interaction with her, she returned to her own task.

ooOoo

At Regents campus, the building had been searched from basement to roof, every nook and cranny, cleaning cupboard and foot locker, had been thoroughly swept, using electronic CO2 detectors and dogs, as well as good old-fashioned poking and prying. No sign of Arthur had been found. He had, most definitely, left the building.

All the images that had been captured during the evacuation of the building were now being processed to see if any known Persons of Interest were amongst them, someone who might connect this incident to a particular group or individual

Arthur's clothes, including his trainers, had been retrieved from the clothing bank in Brent Cross, all stuffed inside a black bin liner. On close inspection, it was noted that the trousers and t-shirt had been slashed, with a sharp knife, indicating that they had been cut from his body. There was no CCTV surveillance anywhere nearby, so any hope of establishing who had dumped them lay in the outside chance of finding latent prints on the plastic bag. The bag and its contents were taken straight to Westminster Public Mortuary, to be processed there, in the state of the art forensic facility.

The tech guys had run every pixel of CCTV footage through FaxRex and compiled a file of all the images of Arthur from that day – both inside the college and from the street cameras. The last sighting was of him walking along a ground floor corridor, after the class broke up for lunch, around 12.30 pm. He turned left, through a rear exit - and vanished.

All Arthur's class mates remarked on what a pleasant, friendly, personable young man he was. No one had a bad word to say about him. The statements taken from the other students revealed that it was his normal practice to go for a walk, at lunch time, in a nearby public garden, for a breath of fresh air. He usually picked up a sandwich and a drink from the coffee shop, at morning recess, to eat in the park.

'They're going to use a dog to track him from the rear exit, sir,' Anthea advised Mycroft, still sitting in the back seat of the staff car. 'They need something with his scent on it.'

Mycroft thought for a moment. Arthur's travel bag was in the boot of this very car. He instructed the driver to bring it to him. He unzipped the top of the bag and reached inside, fishing out a t-shirt – the t-shirt Arthur had worn yesterday, for the family barbeque. It still held the faint aroma of out-door cooking but, predominantly, it smelt of Arthur. Mycroft resisted the temptation to hold the shirt to his face and breathe in that scent. Had he been alone, he would have done just that, but instead he handed the shirt to the waiting policeman, who took it to the dog unit.

'Sir,' Anthea began, when she and Mycroft were alone again, 'it is getting late and we're almost done here. Could I suggest you go home? If anything happens, I will call you at once.'

He smiled, gratefully.

'I appreciate your concern, my dear,' he replied, 'but let's see what the dog turns up first, shall we?'

Anthea nodded and turned back to her Blackberry. The traffic on there, like that on the London streets, had thinned out considerably. They had exhausted nearly all avenues of enquiry and still they had no idea who had done this.

ooOoo

When John Watson entered the lab at St. Bart's, Amanda looked up and smiled, broadly. To her obvious delight, she received a friendly smile in return. She liked Dr Watson. He was always polite – quite the opposite of his friend and colleague. Over the last few months, Amanda had realised that it wasn't actually Sherlock that she idolised at all, but his side-kick whom, she had learned, was the real brains of the outfit.

He credited Holmes, in his blog, with all those brilliant deductions because he was just that self-effacing sort of guy. And he felt sorry for his friend, who was without any saving graces, whatsoever. Amanda could see, now, how Mr Holmes and Dr Hooper were so well matched because Molly was pretty geeky, too. Dr Winterbotham was sort of glad that she had found out the truth about her former hero before she made too much of a fool of herself emulating him.

Having exchanged pleasantries with the over-effusive Amanda, John Watson extricated himself and went over to Molly's office, where Sherlock was sitting at her PC, with a phone plugged into the processor via a USB port, downloading the contents of the phone into a file.

'How's it going?' he asked. 'Any news?'

'Hmm, what? Oh, hello, yes…I mean, no…no news. Well, nothing significant, as far as I can tell. He has a small list of contacts. He only calls or texts an even smaller selection of those, on any sort of a regular basis, and his emails are mostly to or from old army friends or other nurses. I've requested his call log from the phone company. There are several calls from blocked numbers and a few from unidentified ones, so they might be significant.'

'And from Mycroft?' John specified, realising that Sherlock had only referenced his own line of enquiry, so far.

'Nothing.'

'Perhaps you should ring him,' John suggested.

'Why? He would call me if there was anything to report.'

'Well, just to see how he is, perhaps.'

'I know how he is, John. Remember how I was, when William and Molly were taken? That is how he will be. I don't need to call and ask him to know that.'

John closed his eyes and sighed. Sherlock still had the tendency to be rather obtuse. He had come a long way but there were certain aspects of his personality that were - and would ever be - immutable.

'So, where do we go from here?' John asked.

Sherlock turned to look straight at him, and he saw, at once, the concern and worry in his eyes.

'I really have no idea,' he said.

ooOoo

The dog handler held the t-shirt over the dog's muzzle for several seconds, almost half a minute, in fact, so that she got a really good impression of the scent she was to look for. Then, the officer took the dog to the rear exit of the building and gave her the order to 'Seek'.

Immediately, the animal dropped her snout to the ground and began to run around in little circles and eddies, just beyond the threshold of the building. Bearing in mind that many people had passed that way, since half past twelve that afternoon, it was asking a great deal for this dog to discern one scent from all of the others, but she was giving it her best shot, so the handler just encouraged her and let her get on with it.

After more than a minute of furious activity and still no result, the handler looked at Agent Delaney – who was still Lead Agent on the ground – and said,

'The scent has been scattered or obliterated here. Too much foot traffic has passed this way. I think we need to move somewhere that's less of a bottle neck. She'll stand a better chance of picking it up, if the scent is there.'

Delaney nodded his agreement and the handler called the dog and set off across the court yard, toward one of three alley ways that led off this open space, in three different directions. The first one drew a blank. They gave the second one a good going over, and were about to quit and move on, when the dog suddenly pricked her ears and set off at a good clip down the middle one of the three alley ways, tugging on her long lead, urging the handler to go faster.

Man and dog jogged along the alleyway for several metres until it came to an abrupt end, opening onto Cavendish Square, right opposite the entrance to Cavendish Square Garden. Here, on the pavement outside a bank, the dog lost the scent again and began to circle around, nose to the ground, looking for the trail of its quarry. Delaney, who had been jogging behind the handler, looked across at the park and said,

'Take her over the road and see if she picks it up there.'

The handler called, 'Come on girl!' to the dog, in a lively, encouraging voice, and walked her over the road to the park entrance. Straight away, she found the trail again and charged into the park, tail wagging, racing along as fast as her handler could go. She ran down the short path to where it joined the circular one, then onto the grass and across toward a large tree. She then ran around in big circles, then back to the tree and sat down, looking up, expectantly, at her handler.

'Good girl!' he exclaimed in an excited, high-pitched voice, took a yellow tennis ball from his pocket and threw it to the dog. She caught it, deftly, in her jaws and flopped down on the ground, chewing the ball, energetically.

'This is the end of the trail,' said the handler, indicating the spot under the tree.

Delaney looked around the area, then up into the tree canopy, then back to the handler.

'So where did he go from here?' he asked.

'No idea, but were ever he went, he certainly didn't walk. His scent trail ends right here, under this tree.'

'So, you mean he was carried?' Delaney asked, shaking his head, a little confused.

'Or cycled. He could have ridden a bike from here or been pushed in a wheelchair or…'

'Changed his shoes?'

'Yes, that's a possibility. If he put on a brand new pair of shoes that he had never warn at all or a pair that someone else had worn, that would change the scent. But, whatever changed, it changed here,' the police dog handler replied, then unclipped the dog's lead and, walking off across the grass, began to play with her, throwing the ball for her to fetch – her reward for a job well done.

ooOoo

**I've never been to Regents Campus, so I have no idea if there is a rear exit, into a courtyard, with alleyways going off, in real life but in my Sherlolly Universe there is!**


	12. Stolen Chapter Eleven

**I appreciate that some people are finding this subject matter hard to read. I do understand. So I will mark each chapter with trigger warnings, where necessary. This chapter is mostly procedural, so no trigger warnings. **

**Chapter Eleven**

'Sir, the dog has found something,' Anthea announced.

Mycroft, who had been leaning back on the headrest, with his eyes closed, sat up, immediately.

'It's in Cavendish Square Garden, on the other side of the campus. It's not him, sir, but it's evidence that he was there.'

Mycroft pressed the intercom button in the arm rest and told the driver to take them round to Cavendish Square. When they pulled up, opposite the bank, having passed though the temporary road block, Mycroft and Anthea got out of the car and crossed the pavement to enter the park, which had been cordoned off with police tape and was a hive of activity. People in pale blue SOCO coverall suits were scouring the whole garden and surrounding area, placing numbered markers and gathering forensic evidence.

Mycroft was met by Agent Delaney, who explained to him what the dog had found, as he led him over to the big tree, after donning sterile overshoes. Mycroft stood just outside the inner cordon, placed around the tree itself, and listened to Delaney relate the dog handler's report.

Mycroft, as he processed this information, pointed to some parallel marks which laid a trail across the grass to one of the garden exits.

'Those marks, they weren't made by a bicycle or a wheelchair,' he said.

'No, sir, we believe they are the tracks of an ambulance gurney.'

Mycroft wrinkled his brow and looked along the line of the tracks.

'So, he was taken away in an ambulance? Have we checked all the hospital A and E departments?'

'Yes, sir,' Anthea replied. 'That was one of the first things we did, as soon as we called the Yellow Alert.'

'If he had been injured in an accident, the hospital staff might have cut off his clothing, but they would have kept them. They would not have thrown them into a Clothing Bank,' Mycroft thought aloud.

'Indeed, they would not, sir,' Anthea agreed.

'But, in order to take him in plain sight, they had to make it look to passers-by that he was being attended by paramedics. They must have incapacitated him and then taken him away by ambulance.'

'That would seem to be the case, sir,' Delaney confirmed.

'Any CCTV?'

'There is a camera outside the bank. We are checking to see if there are any images of an ambulance attending someone, in this park, within the time frame.'

'And witnesses?'

'We're carrying out a door-to-door.'

'And no one has claimed responsibility, yet?'

'No, sir,' Anthea replied. 'But it is early days. They do so love leaving us to us sweat, for a while, before making their demands, as you know.'

Mycroft knew all too well, having been called upon, on several occasions over the years, to manage hostage situations. He nodded, pensively, still looking down at the patch of grass from which his dearly beloved Arthur had been spirited away.

'One thing I thinks we can be sure of, whoever they are, they knew about the tracker devices and got rid of them as quickly as possible and in opposite directions. They do try to make it difficult, don't they,' he mused.

'Sir,' Anthea said, placing a gentle hand on his arm, 'there really is nothing more you can do, here. Everything is in hand. Please, sir, you really should go home.'

Mycroft gave no reply. His head was spinning. He was torn between his children, in Hertfordshire, and the love of his life, wherever he might be. He felt so guilty for the children because he had assured them, that morning, that he and Arthur would be home this evening. But it was already past bedtime and neither of them was home. And one of them might never come home again. That was the decider, really. He had, for sure, two living children who needed him now and, perhaps, one dead lover who would never need him again.

'Sir,' Anthea repeated, quietly, 'do come back to the car. Please. Let the driver take you home.'

Mycroft gave a small nod and walked back toward the road. He slid into the back seat of the limo and removed the overshoes, as the driver closed the back door and climbed in behind the wheel. Anthea watched as the car pulled away from the curb, then she turned back to Delaney and said,

'You and I are done here. We need to go back to Whitehall and start making some sense of all this.'

Delaney followed her to the second staff car, they both climbed in and it drove away.

ooOoo

Having emailed, to Anthea, the latents he had lifted off the phone, including Billy's - marked 'Witness' - and the text, call and email downloads, Sherlock and John left the Path Lab, and the simpering Amanda, behind and trotted down the stairs and out onto the street.

'What on earth is the matter with that girl?' John wondered, aloud, not really expecting an answer.

'You shouldn't encourage her, John.'

'What? Say, what? I don't encourage her. I'm a happily married man!'

'You smile at her and chat to her.'

'And you see that as encouraging her?'

'No, but she does. She's a fantasist, John. She constantly stars in her own day dreams.'

'Oh, well, remind me to ignore her, in future.'

'A wise decision. I find it works perfectly for me.'

They caught a cab back to Baker Street and Sherlock went straight upstairs while John called in on Mrs Hudson, to say hello and scrounge a cup of tea and some biscuits. He knew Sherlock wouldn't have much use for him for a while. He would be in his Mind Palace, like as not.

Sherlock dropped into his chair and took out Arthur's mobile, opened the 'Phone' app and selecting 'Contacts'. The top three names were each preceded by A(ice), Aa(ice) and Aaa(ice), respectively. The first name was Mycroft, the second was Josie and the third was Rosie. Sherlock knew that Arthur had two sisters, whom he always referred to as 'the girls'.

According to his phone log, he hadn't communicated with them very regularly for the previous twelve months or so but, since his recent visit, he had texted one or the other of them every day. The texts were fairly standard.

_How's everything?_

_Everything OK?_

_How's things?_

And more of the same. Molly had mentioned, the night before, that Arthur's trip home had not gone well. He guessed it must be one or other or both of the parents who were being arsey about him coming out. His sisters seemed fine with it, though. Their replies were very friendly, if a little ribald.

_Fine, here. How's Lover Boy?_

_Oh, same as usual. Hey, not wearing it out, I hope. Save some for the wedding night! LOL!_

_Same old same old. Give him a squeeze from me! ROFL!_

Sherlock assumed that 'LOL' stood for 'lots of love' but 'ROFL' had him thoroughly baffled. He considered looking it up in the online 'Dictionary of Text Speak' but he wasn't that interested. The mental image conjured up by the references to his brother's sex life was disconcerting, to say the least. Arthur's sisters, though, clearly had no problem with visualising their brother in a compromising situation. Perhaps it was a 'Northern Thing.'

He noted that Arthur had not texted either of 'the girls' today, before he disappeared. Would they be concerned at the omission? Had anyone told them about the kidnap? He wondered if he should tell them but thought better of that idea. He was not the best person to impart bad news. He dialled Anthea's number, instead, for an update on the state of play.

'I've passed on the files you sent me to the relevant Unit Heads. If we get any matches, I'll let you know. Your witness has given us a good description of the man who dumped the phone but he is a bit hazy on the actual time so we're running a check through the station CCTV footage for the whole day,' Anthea explained.

She went on to tell him about what the dog found and the deductions they had made from the evidence, so far.

'So, Arthur made a habit of walking to the park every lunch time?' Sherlock mused. Whoever planned this snatch must have known that. He must have been reconnoitred.

'Have you processed the mug shots taken during the evacuation?' he asked.

'As we speak,' was the succinct reply.

'All the students and staff have photo ID cards, don't they?'

'Affirmative.'

'With the mug shots kept on record?'

'Yes.'

'Go back through all the CCTV footage for the last week and check all the faces against the records of students and staff. Someone has been observing Arthur. They won't be registered with the college so they won't have a profile in the database. We might get an image that will lead us to whoever has done this. Any luck with witnesses from the park?'

'No, but most people who frequent a city park at lunch time work in the city and live in the suburbs. We will put officers in the park tomorrow lunch time and try to get some witness accounts of the snatch. In the meantime, we hope to find some CCTV images of the incident.'

'And no one has made any demands?'

'Not yet. We must wait until they do.'

'Twiddling our thumbs,' hissed Sherlock, in frustration.

'No, Sherlock, there's a lot going on, behind the scenes. Considering it's only eight hours since Arthur disappeared, we've made a lot of progress. We've recovered his phone and clothes, we think we know when, where and how he was taken and we have at least one witness. That's pretty good going, believe me.'

He exhaled, loudly, acknowledging, to himself at least, that it was his own inactivity that was really bugging him.

'Where is my brother?' he asked.

'I've sent him home. He's been running this operation since the balloon went up, holding everything together, when what he really needs is for someone else to take control so that he can just be a victim and unravel, like any other victim would. It's not healthy. He's going to make himself ill.'

'I have told him he should learn to delegate,' Sherlock agreed.

'Not in his nature, Sherlock, unfortunately.'

'Has anyone spoken to Arthur's sisters?' he asked.

'I doubt it. Do we have a number?'

'The (ice) numbers in Arthur's Contacts.'

'Oh, of course,' she scolded herself. 'I'll speak to Mr Holmes and ask him if he wants them to be advised. It may be too soon to go public, even to close family. We don't want the press getting wind of it. There's been a lot of speculation about why the Regents campus was cordoned off and evacuated for four hours, this evening. It's known that SO15 was involved. And the fingertip search of Cavendish Square Garden hasn't gone unnoticed either. We've put a reporting black out on it all – national security – but Twitter has been busy.'

'Well, you know what's needed where all of that's concerned. I'll leave it to you and Mycroft. Meanwhile, any prime suspects? Who is flavour of the month amongst terror groups, at the moment?'

'That's the weirdest thing. Absolutely no one is leaping out at us. As terror threats go, things have been a bit quiet lately. There's barely a whisper on the street, let alone a word. All our intelligence is drawing a blank.'

'Lone wolf, d'you think?'

'Or an autonomous cell. The London bombers were such a group, which is why that wasn't flagged up, in advance.'

'This is a power play. Whoever they are, they want something in return. So they will be in touch with their demands. We just need to find them, beforehand.'

Easier said than done, of course, he thought, after hanging up the call, ruffling his hair in frustration. If only he could see a pattern, a link, a connection of some sort. But there was nothing. Just a huge, empty void.

ooOoo


	13. Stolen Chapter Twelve

**This chapter contains sexual references, bad language and anguish.**

**Chapter Twelve**

When Arthur awoke, it was pitch dark. Not a beam of moonlight or a twinkle of starlight illuminated the room. He held up his hand and could barely see it, in front of his face. He rolled over, onto his back, and gasped at the sharp pain around his rib cage, from the vicious blow that his 'friend' had given him. The second period of sleep had cleared away a little more of the anaesthetic that he'd been administered in order to get him here – wherever here was – but he still felt weak and woozy.

He lay still, focusing all his attention inwards, to hold tight to the memory of a dream that was so vivid he could taste and smell and feel it. The dream had been of the night that he and Mycroft pledged themselves to one another - the tactile sensation of their bodies entwined, in the throes of passion, moving in perfect synchrony, the taste of Mycroft's mouth and skin, the smell of sweat and musk.

It was painful to remember but so much more painful to forget, so he replayed the memory over and over, to fix it in his mind, and as he did, he felt for the ring on his middle finger, right hand, to touch that symbol of their love – but it was not there.

The shock of that realisation elicited a cry of anguish that rebounded off the bare walls of this stark, comfortless room. How could they do that? How could they?

And now he recalled what happened in the park.

He had bought his pre-packed sandwiches and bottle of water, in the coffee shop, at morning break as usual and, at lunch time, he had gone straight out of the rear exit, though the court yard and along the alley to Cavendish Square. Crossing the road in front of the bank, he'd entered the little park. Once inside, he crossed the grass to sit in the shade, under a big tree. He was no sun worshipper, being all too aware of the risks of over exposure to sunlight.

He took off his jacket and laid it on the ground then sat on it and leaned back against the tree trunk. There were lots of people in the park today. The sun brought them out, mostly shop and office workers, making the most of their lunch breaks, just like him. Opening his sandwich pack, he fished one out and took a big bite, then a swig of bottled water to wash it down.

Looking around, he spotted those two young guys he'd seen a couple of times last week. They seemed to have the same lunch hour as him. As they walked across the grass towards him, they nodded and smiled in recognition. He returned the greeting.

'You've found a good spot there,' said the shorter of the two. 'Mind if we join you?'

'No, sure, pull up a pew,' Arthur replied, and the two guys flopped down on the grass, next to him. 'Do you work near here?' he asked, by way of friendly conversation.

'Sort of,' said the taller one. 'We're just here for a couple of days, doing some contract work. How about you?'

'I'm doing a Summer School course at the university, over there,' he replied, indicating over his shoulder, with his thumb.

'Is there a university around here?' asked the shorter one, incredulously. 'Where abouts?'

'Oh, just down that alleyway, there, next to the bank,' Arthur explained, turning round to indicate the entrance to the alley. As he raised his right arm to point, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, as though something had stung him. He yelped and slapped his hand on the point of pain – to find a plastic syringe sticking out of his neck. He stared, in shock, at the man to his right, the one who had stuck him with the syringe, but even as he opened his mouth to curse, he felt his body begin to float, his vision blur and his awareness fading. The next thing he remembered was waking up, incarcerated, in this room.

And, now that he was awake again, his body was demanding that he take a pee. He rolled, very gingerly, off the bed and stood, momentarily, centring his balance. The drug was still in his bloodstream, in his brain, making him dizzy. Under his bare feet, the lino felt smooth and cool. He shuffled over in the direction of the sink, arms outstretched, until he made contact with the stainless steel rim of the basin and – for want of any alternative –he leant on the counter and peed in the sink.

His urine smelt very strong and had a distinctive additional odour which told him exactly which drug had been used on him. It was a powerful anaesthetic, normally administered during surgery. He had not been given the antidote so his body had to metabolise it, unassisted. No wonder he felt so groggy.

He was obviously dehydrated, so he turned on the tap to get a drink of water – but no water came out. The supply was not connected. He felt a huge wave of disappointment, quite disproportionate to the nature of the dilemma, in the grand scheme of things. But his inner voice spoke to him, reminding him what was going on here. This was all about domination. They needed to break him. Break his body, break his mind and break his spirit. He could not allow them to do that.

As a soldier, on active service in a war zone, he had been given anti-interrogation training and, as an army psychiatric nurse, he had assisted in debriefings, so he had experienced the interrogation process from both sides. He knew exactly what he had to do in order to survive. He had to preserve his ego at all costs, maintain his sense of self, remember who he was.

He remembered the bottle of water his gaoler had given him and wondered if it was still in the room. The only way to find out was to search by touch, since it was too dark to actually see anything. He rolled off the sink unit, trying to ignore the pain in his ribcage, and began to walk around the room, arms still outstretched, feeling the floor with his feet and every horizontal surface with his hands. He did a full circuit of the room, finding nothing but the bare furniture. He tried the door, when he came to it, without much hope of success, and his assumption proved correct. It did not budge. And the light switch he discovered, next to the door, was ineffectual, though he flicked it several times.

When he reached the bed again, he lay back down, pulling the blanket up to his chest. Now the sun had set, it was chilly in this room devoid of all home comforts, except for the bed, the pillow and the NHS cellular shock blanket. He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd been here. He didn't even know what day it was. He felt his wrist, for his watch, but that was gone, too.

He was hungry. He hadn't managed to eat his lunch before those two bastards had snuck in under his radar and jabbed him in the neck. The last meal he'd had was breakfast, on Monday morning – two slices of pate on toast. Always break your fast with protein - that was his diet mantra. Ok. Being hungry wasn't the end of the world. He'd seen people go a lot longer than one day without food and live to tell the tale.

His thoughts strayed, inevitably, back to Mycroft - and the twins. Charlie, especially, would be missing him terribly. Katy was Daddy's Girl but Charlie was Poppah's boy. And Mycroft would be so worried and – worst of all – he would be blaming himself. Of course, Mycroft would assume that he was the intended target, that Arthur was just a hostage, a means by which to get to the Iceman.

The thought of Mycroft feeling responsible for this cut him to the quick. If only there were some way to tell his partner that the perpetrators of this heinous act had no idea who Mycroft even was. Their ignorance would be their downfall. These dumb fucks may have taken his clothes, his shoes, his watch, his phone and his ring, but his personal possessions would be here, somewhere in this place, and the tagged items would be transmitting their tracker signals. Mycroft's minions, as Sherlock irreverently called them, would be homing in on this spot, even now. He had no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft would find him.

But, alongside the knowledge of who was not responsible for his predicament lay the shocking revelation of who was. His own father had arranged this? He could barely grasp that concept. How did his father even know about such people as Reparation Therapists? Arthur could only think of one answer to that question – the new BFF, Mick Robinson. Someone like him would be likely to have contacts in all sorts of extreme Right Wing organisations.

And it was with a sinking feeling that he realised that he hadn't told Mycroft – or anyone else, for that matter – about his father's new affiliation with a White Supremacist. He'd just wanted to forget about the vile things his father had said and done to him. Boy, had that backfired right in his face! Mycroft would not even suspect that there might be a much simpler explanation for his disappearance than an anti-government terrorist plot. Arthur screwed up his eyes and cursed his own stupidity.

ooOoo

Sherlock was roused from his contemplations by the ringing of his phone.

'Hello, babe, what's happening?' Molly asked.

'Processing data, at the moment. There's quite a lot to go at so it will probably take all night. Anthea has promised to call me the moment they have anything tangible. How are the children?'

'Ours are fine. They love being out here in the country. It's like a mini holiday for them, although William knows something is not right because of the sudden decision to come here. I've told him that you are safe and that I will tell him what's going on as soon as I can. He's OK with that. Freddie and Violet are oblivious, obviously, although I think Violet might miss you round about two in the morning, when you usually have your little commune.'

Sherlock smiled, wistfully. Violet wouldn't be the only one who would be missing their little commune.

'What about Katy and Charlie?'

'They were OK until they realised that Mycroft and Arthur wouldn't be home by bedtime, then they both got upset, Katy insisting that 'Daddy pwomised!' and Charlie just sobbing and asking for Poppah. Sara and Michele have been marvellous but we really don't know what to tell them. That has to be up to Mycroft – what to tell them and when. How is Mycroft coping, by the way?'

'In a 'Mycroft' sort of way, taking it all upon himself, of course. Anthea had to push him into his car and send him home. He should be arriving soon.'

'I'll listen out for the car,' Molly resolved.

'Do give him some space, though. He's been in the spotlight all day. He might appreciate a moment to himself.'

'Now I am impressed, Sherlock Holmes,' Molly declared. 'That Empathy App is really working well, now.

'Thank you,' he replied, 'for giving it to me.'

'You had it installed all along, you just hadn't applied it.'

'Are we going to run this analogy into the ground?' he asked, in mock disdain.

'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'I have hundreds of App related metaphors. I bought the app. Oh!'

'What?' he asked.

'I can hear a car. It must be him.'

'Give him a good half hour, at least. And make him eat something.'

'Did you and he do a body swap, or something?'

'No, it's just my turn to be mother.'

'So, tell me what's been happening. What do we know?' she asked, serious again.

He went on to describe how the day had unfolded.

ooOoo

Mycroft climbed from the staff car, just as the front door of Colbert House opened and Andrew, his butler, appeared.

'Good evening, Andrew, are the children in bed?' he asked.

'Yes, sir, though I don't think they're settled quite yet.'

'I'll go and see them,' Mycroft replied, walking into the front hall and straight up the stairs. Andrew collected the weekend bags from the boot of the car and brought them inside, as the driver turned the vehicle around, on the gravel forecourt, and drove away, down the drive, back to London. When you drove for Mr Holmes, there was no such thing as regular hours. It came with the territory.

On reaching the top of the house, Mycroft pushed open the Nursery door and stepped, quietly, inside. The two cots that the twins had slept in as babies had been replaced by twin beds, each with their own distinctive style, to suit the preferences of the occupant. Katy's bed linen was a riot of frothy pink, like an explosion in a candyfloss factory, but she loved it. Charlie's colour scheme was all greens and browns, like a jungle scape, with animal prints and a camouflage theme – Poppah's boy, indeed.

As Mycroft tiptoed across the carpeted floor, towards the beds, Sara, who had been sitting on the sofa at the far end of the room, reading a book, stood up but Mycroft indicated, with a wave, that she should not disturb her reading, so she sat back down. Approaching the nearest bed – Katy's – Mycroft spotted a little gleam in an open eye, so he knelt down and put his hand on Katy's head.

'Daddy,' she murmured, tearfully, 'where were you? 'U pwomised!'

Mycroft lifted up the little girl, in his arms, and hugged her to his chest.

'I know, my darling. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me,' he whispered.

'As'awight, Daddy, I know it not your fau't. It der Gubberment fau't. Naughty Gubberment.' In Katy's head canon, 'der Gubberment' was a person who was always making Daddy do things he didn't want to do.

Mycroft glanced across at the hump in Charlie's bed. The only movement was the gently rise and fall of a sleeping child's breathing.

'Charlie did cwy. He want id Poppah,' Katy informed her father. 'But he sleeping now.'

'We won't wake him, then,' Mycroft decided.

'Daddy, where id Poppah?'

'He's had to stay in London, Katy. He couldn't come home tonight.'

'Why?' asked the little girl, mystified. 'Do Poppah wert for der Gubberment, too?' She was appalled at the very idea.

'No, my darling, he doesn't work for the Government.'

'Why id he busy, den, Daddy?'

'He's had to go somewhere – hopefully not for long – but I'm not sure when he'll be back, so I can't tell you a definite time or day.'

'Ad he don to see id Mommah an' Poppah, agen?'

'No, not this time. He's gone somewhere else.'

'Ad Untle Serlot don wib im? Ee div'nt wert for der Gubberment, neeva.'

'No, Uncle Sherlock hasn't gone with him but he is helping him, which is why he's not here, too.'

Katy seemed to be mollified by these rather obscure answers. She rubbed her eyes with her fists and cuddled into her daddy's shoulder.

'Are you ready to go to sleep, now?' Mycroft asked.

'Yet, I tired,' she admitted.

He placed her, gently, back in the bed and covered her over, then bent and kissed the top of her head,

'Good night, my darling. Sleep well.'

'Du'night, Daddy,' she breathed, half asleep already.

Mycroft stood and looked over at Sara, beckoning for her to follow him out onto the landing. Once outside the Nursery, with the door closed, he turned back to the nanny.

'Sara, I must apologise for any inconvenience this unfortunate situation may be causing you and Michele, being under house arrest, to all intents and purposes. We will resolve this issue as quickly as possible and, in the meantime, be assured that you will be fully remunerated for the extra hours…'

'Sir,' she interrupted him, 'I think I speak for all the staff when I say that we are all shocked and appalled at what has happened and we will do whatever we can to support you and the children until Mr Arthur is safely returned.'

Mycroft was quite taken aback by the bald sincerity of the nanny's outburst and, for a moment, he was rendered inarticulate but he recovered quickly and said,

'Thank you, my dear. I am immeasurably grateful to you.'

He gave a polite nod, turned and descended the stairs, to the ground floor, walking briskly to the Summer Drawing Room, where Molly was sitting in front of the television, having just finished talking to Sherlock. She stood to greet Mycroft, giving him a comforting hug. He returned the gesture, gratefully, but drew back after only a few seconds.

'I am so sorry for the inconvenience to you and the children, having to be here, Molly,' he said, echoing his apology to Sara.

'Oh, Mycroft, don't even go there! None of this is your fault!' she exclaimed, and pulled him in for another, much longer, hug.

'Thank you, Molly, It is a great comfort to know that the children and I have the support of all my family and staff, truly, it is.'

He paused, thinking, then asked,

'Do you have everything you need? Are the staff taking care of you?'

'Yes, and absolutely, Mycroft. We are fine. But how are you?'

'I'm tired, my dear, but there are a few matters that require my attention so I'm afraid I must leave you to your own devises, again.'

She squeezed his arm and gave a quick nod.

'Don't work too late and please try to eat something, though I know that may be difficult.'

With a tight smile, he left the room and made his way to the Butler's Pantry, where he spoke, briefly, with Andrew about the increased levels of security. Heightened alerts were nothing new for the butler. He had worked for the Holmes family for many years. But this time was different. One of their number was missing, perhaps in mortal danger. This was personal. He assured the master of the house of the willing support of all the staff.

Duty served, Mycroft repaired, at last, to his study, finding a plate of beef sandwiches, covered in cling film, and a glass of his favourite single malt on the side table, beside his chair. He sat down and picked up the glass, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. Then his shoulders began to shake and he covered his face with his hands, giving way to all the pent up fear and despair, at last.

ooOoo


	14. Stolen Chapter Thirteen

**Arthur fights back.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

When Arthur awoke for the third time, it was day time. The light from the window was diffuse, not direct. So this room must face South-West or West, he reasoned, since it surely must be morning, now. But it wasn't the light that had awoken him, it was the unmistakable aroma of frying bacon.

Arthur knew, all too well, that Reparation Therapists employed techniques of torture and aversion therapy in their nefarious practises but using the smell of bacon cooking was a new one on him. However, he had to admit it was rather effective. It was at least twenty-four hours since his last meal and his gastric juices and salivary glands were most definitely stimulated by the smell. His stomach growled.

An internal scan told Arthur that his body seemed to have dealt with the effects of the anaesthetic. His head felt clear and his muscle tone seemed back to normal – low, of course, since he had just woken up, but that was to be expected.

As he lay, on his back, looking up at the window, he found himself gauging the height of the aperture from the floor and wondering whether he could reach it, standing on the bed. Arthur was physically fit. He worked out on a regular basis – every day when he was at home, at Colbert House, in Mycroft's private gym. He had taken on the role of personal trainer to his partner, who previously had adopted something of a famine or feast approach to exercise.

Arthur was convinced that Mycroft was a little body dysmorphic. The man was stick thin, with barely an ounce of surplus fat anywhere. He was a little flabby around the middle, due to his somewhat sedentary lifestyle, but he certainly was not over-weight and yet he had a penchant for fad dieting. Arthur suspected that comments made in his youth, when he may have carried a bit of puppy fat, had scarred his self-image for life. Personally, Arthur absolutely adored Mycroft's body and, now that he was supervising the other man's fitness regime, his abs were beginning to look more like a six-pack and less like a meal sack.

Despite his dire circumstances, thinking about Mycroft and his private love-hate relationship with himself, made Arthur smile. No one knew the Iceman like he did, not even Sherlock – probably least of all, Sherlock. Molly had a good grasp of the older Holmes' insecurities but even she wasn't aware how deep those insecurities went.

When Mycroft came home from his emergency trip to Brazil, with the photographs and letter that his mother's friend, Caro, had kept secret for so long, he had opened up to Arthur about how his mother's sudden and inexplicable personality change had affected his six year old self. Mycroft had been the same age as William was now when that happened and he still bore the emotional scars.

Arthur was a modest, self-effacing man but even he had to acknowledge that he had brought a degree of happiness and contentment into his partner's life that not even the children had achieved. For this reason, if for no other, he was determined that he would do everything in his power to subvert the efforts of this so-called therapist to break his will. Never give up, never give in, and try to escape.

The window looked like his best bet for an escape attempt. If he could just get his fingers onto the window ledge, he might be able to haul himself up to the window and either open it or break the glass. At the very least, he may recognise the surrounding landscape, a familiar landmark that would give him clue as to his location and, if at some stage he did manage to escape, a visual reccie of the area might mean the difference between making it to freedom and being recaptured.

As a combatant in enemy hands, it was his duty to escape. And, as a prisoner under interrogation, it was his duty not to give away any information that might aid the enemy. As an abductee, it was essential that he resit all their efforts to subvert him. There could be no Stockholm Syndrome here. He was resolved to do all three.

ooOoo

'I will be working from home, today,' Mycroft informed his PA.

Anthea was relieved to hear that. It had been almost unbearable, the day before, to observe her boss fighting to maintain his usual calm and detached demeanour in the face of this intolerable personal crisis. Mycroft could perform his most valuable role – that of a master strategist – from anywhere, so he might as well be at home where the needs of his children and the demands of the estate would be both a distraction and a comfort.

'I will keep you fully informed of every aspect of the operation, sir,' the PA assured him.

'I know you will, my dear. I have complete confidence in your abilities as a field co-ordinator. I know of none better.'

Having the benefit of her conversation with Daddy, Katy had slept through the night. Charlie, in contrast, had been very restless and tearful through-out and, although he never actually awoke, his frequent bouts of crying gave Sara a very disturbed night. She was quite relieved when Michele took over childcare duties at seven-thirty the next morning.

The children were delighted when Mycroft joined them for breakfast in the Nursery. Mrs Orgreave prepared scrambled egg and smoked salmon, with tea and toast, in the small Nursery kitchen, by the expediency of the microwave, electric kettle and toaster. Charlie ran to his father, the moment he set eyes on him, through the Nursery doorway, and hugged him tight then looked, hopefully, over Mycroft's shoulder but to no avail.

'Where Poppah?' he asked, plaintively, and Mycroft repeated the deliberately vague explanation he had given to Katy, the night before.

'I Skype him, yes?' Charlie asked. He and Katy were well accustomed to Skyping Caro and Henrique, in Brazil. They were very techno-savvy.

'No, Charlie, I'm sorry, you can't Skype him. There's no Internet where he is.'

Charlie's lip quivered but he stoically resisted the urge to cry. He took his seat at the Nursery table and tucked into his breakfast, even managing a smile or two during the meal.

ooOoo

Sherlock had sat in his chair for half the night, moving things around in his head, trying to spot a clue or a link that he had previously over-looked. He repeatedly picked up Arthur's phone to read and re-read the text conversations he'd had with his sisters. He felt sure that there was some hidden message in those exchanges but, short of ringing the two women and asking them outright if there was some sort of code to these texts, he just had to hope that the penny would drop, sooner rather than later. Until Mycroft deemed it safe to speak to those women, his hands were tied.

Normally, he wouldn't let anything so trivial as Mycroft's instructions thwart him in his intentions but, on this occasion, it was Arthur's fate at stake. If the Press got wind that the loved one of a high ranking government official had been kidnapped, right here on home soil, it would go viral, giving the perpetrators more publicity than their wildest dreams could ever have predicted.

Until the kidnappers made their demands known or, at the very least, claimed responsibility, there was no opportunity for any negotiation. That was one of Mycroft's many special talents – brokering deals between sworn enemies. But who would negotiate when Mycroft himself was the perceived enemy?

At around four in the morning, Sherlock moved to the sofa and stretched out, with the intention of taking a sortie into his Mind Palace, but the next thing he knew, his ears were assaulted by a loud roar and he awoke with such a start that he rolled off the sofa and landed, face down, on the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table.

'Oh, sorry, dear! I didn't see you there. Are you alright?'

He pushed, slowly, to his knees and fixed his landlady with a disgruntled scowl.

'Is it entirely necessary to come barging in here, at this hour, and assault me with a vacuum cleaner?' he demanded, with vitriol.

'Well, I didn't know you were here, dear. I thought you went home, last night, when John left. And, in that dressing gown, you just blended in with the sofa, like camouflage.'

Sherlock eased his behind back onto the sofa, in a vain attempt to regain his dignity but Mrs Hudson, having established to her own satisfaction, at least, that he was unhurt by his untimely tumble, could not resist the powerful urge to laugh, even though she knew it was entirely inappropriate, especially under the current circumstances.

'Oh, Sherlock,' she chortled. 'That was so funny!'

'Not from my perspective,' he huffed, as he rose to his feet and stalked off, through the kitchen, into the bathroom.

Mrs H switched the Henry back on and continued to vacuum the rug, still emitting snorts of hilarity, at the recurring image of her tenant's unceremonious dismount.

ooOoo

Arthur was just about to stand up on the bed to see if he could reach the window ledge, when he heard the door being unlocked. It was opened by a man dressed all in black. He stepped into the room and did a quick visual check around, stared fixedly at Arthur for a moment, then held the door wide for the 'friend' to enter, carrying a tray. Once he was in the room, the man in black retreated and relocked the door from the outside.

He placed the tray on the medical trolley and turned, with a big smile, to his prisoner.

'Breakfast!' he announced, cheerfully.

Arthur returned a stony glare.

'It's perfectly good food, trust me,' the other man said.

'You had me kidnapped. You're keeping me here against my will and you assaulted me. That's not much of a basis for trust.'

'Arthur,' he began, in a placatory manner, 'as I've already said, I only want what's best for you. And, right now, you need to eat. We don't want you wasting away, do we?'

'I won't be here long enough to waste away.'

'Excellent! You're seeing sense already! I'm quite sure that you will soon see the error of your ways and we'll be able to return you to your family – to the people who really love you. Then you can begin your life again, free from this wicked abomination that has taken control of you.'

Arthur continued to stare and made no move to get out of bed to eat the breakfast, even though the smell emanating from under the food cover was making his mouth water, shamelessly.

The 'therapist' tutted and removed the cover from the plate of food – a full English breakfast – and said,

'Choose any item of food – any one you like – and I will eat it.' He gestured toward the plate.

Arthur was hungry. So much so, he was beginning to feel light-headed from low blood sugar. He considered the man's offer. Any item of his choice? That seemed fairly fool proof. He came to a decision and slid off the bed, crossing to the trolley. Picking up the plastic knife and fork, he cut one sausage in half and stabbed one half, offering it to the other man. He took it off the fork, with his finger and thumb, and popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, then raised his eyebrows in Arthur's direction.

Arthur thought that perhaps the sausage was a bit of an obvious choice, so he cut a piece of the fried egg and offered it to his captor, who sighed and shook his head but still took the piece of egg and ate it.

'Would you like me to try anything else?' the man asked.

Arthur did not reply but pulled the trolley over to the bed, where he sat and began tucking into the meal and drinking from the bottle of water that was also on the tray – though not before first checking that the seal on the bottle had not been broken. The other man leant against the long work top and watched his captive consume his breakfast.

Arthur took his time over the meal, well aware that whatever was to follow would be, at the very least extremely unpleasant and, more than likely very painful. But the food couldn't last for ever and, eventually, he drained the water bottle and pushed the trolley away.

His new friend pulled the trolley over to the doorway and rapped sharply on the door. The man in black opened the door and pulled the trolley out of the room, closing the door again.

'Well, Arthur, how was your meal?'

'Where are my clothes?' Arthur asked.

'You don't need those clothes, Arthur. Those were the Devil's clothes, not yours. Those clothes were evil.'

Arthur was rather alarmed by this use of the past tense but pushed the implications of that to the back of his mind.

'How can clothes be evil? They're inanimate objects,' he said.

'Those clothes were a symbol of your sin, Arthur.'

'What, the sin of wearing Jack Wills and Levi 501's? Oh, not to mention Nike. I had no idea!'

'You were gulled into wearing those sinful clothes by that man who has corrupted you.'

Arthur gave a bark of laughter.

'Hello? Have you ever seen my partner's dress sense? Do you really think I would ever let him give me wardrobe advice? That's one subject on which we agree to disagree!'

The man stared hard at Arthur, lips pursed.

'You don't seem to be taking this very seriously, Arthur,' he said, at last.

Arthur's smile disappeared at once.

'How can I take this seriously? This is a farce. I am gay. That's just who I am. I'm not ill, I'm not defective and I'm not possessed by the Devil. I'm just gay.'

The other man frowned then turned, when he heard the door being unlocked and opened. The man in black came in, pushing the medical trolley which now had a TV on it. He pushed it to the wall opposite the bed, plugged it into a power socket and switched it on.

Ah, so the wall sockets work, even if the light socket doesn't, Arthur noted.

'What's this? Good Morning Britain?' Arthur drawled, though he was feeling a lot less amused than he sounded.

During the preceding verbal exchange, Arthur had become increasingly aware of a discomfort in his stomach. He'd had gastroenteritis, once, and this sensation was not dissimilar to that. His stomach began to roil and he felt the colour draining from his face, as the discomfort developed into a wave of intense nausea. As the saliva began to pool in his mouth, he pushed off the bed and lurched toward the sink, making it just in time, as his guts heaved and his breakfast made a dramatic reappearance.

He wretched and heaved and the contents of his stomach splatted into the sink, to join the remains of his nocturnal urination.

During a brief hiatus between expulsions, he rested his forehead on the cool, stainless steel rim of the sink, and gasped,

'You bastard…the water…'

'Well done, Arthur. A hypodermic through the neck is impossible to detect with the naked eye but an extraordinarily effective way to introduce foreign substances into a sealed bottle.'

Arthur didn't really hear most of that, since he was heaving and groaning, as his body broke out in a cold sweat.

ooOoo


	15. Stolen Chapter Fourteen

**Just a reminder that Arthur was a soldier and, therefore, fluent in barrack room Anglo Saxon. He also has quite an extensive vocabulary of slang names for gay people. Please don't be offended. I don't subscribe to any of them.**

**C****hapter Fourteen**

Sherlock passed from the bathroom to his bedroom, wrapped in one towel and rubbing his hair with another, when his phone rang. He picked it up. It was Anthea.

'We have CCTV of the snatch, we have four faces and one name. Marcus Frayne. He's known to us,' she announced, straight to the point. 'I've sent you an email.'

Sherlock diverted to the sitting room and sat at the table, opening his laptop and selecting Email. The link came up and he opened the file. He speed-read, to get the gist.

'MI5?' he spoke into the phone, where Anthea was still holding on.

'Formerly. We trained him but he went off-piste rather sharpish, once we took away his trainer wheels. He's been freelance for the last five years. But his specialism fits the bill.'

'Extraordinary Rendition.'

'Yes, he's been doing quite a bit of work for the CIA, lately. They like to contract out that sort of thing, wherever possible. But the CIA aren't involved here. I asked them and they said 'no'.'

'Give me half an hour. I'll come to you,' Sherlock stated and cut the connection, returning to his bedroom to dry off and dress.

ooOoo

Molly was in the family kitchen, at Colbert House, serving breakfast to her boys and herself. She had declined an invitation to the Nursery, feeling that Mycroft needed some time alone with his children. Violet was asleep in her travel cot, in Nelson, having had a rather disturbed night, clearly missing her night-time playmate, Daddy.

William was explaining to his little brother how worker bees did a waggle dance to show the other worker bees where the flowers were that had a supply of nectar.

'They point their heads in the direction of the flowers and they waggle their abdomens to show the other bees which way to go. And the length of time they waggle tells the other bees how far away the flowers are.'

Freddie listened with rapt attention then jumped down off his chair and declared,

'Like dis, William?' as he stuck out his head in the direction of the breakfast table and waggled his behind. 'How long sudd I wabble for de toast and marmayade?'

William gave his brother a bemused stare.

'Freddie, you don't need to do a waggle dance. You can talk and say, 'Look, there's the toast and marmalade.''

'Yes, but what if I watted to tell de bees where de toast and marmayade is. I would need to talk in dere yandwidge, wulda't I?'

'No, Freddie. Bees don't eat toast and marmalade. They eat nectar and they collect pollen. Wasps like marmalade but bees don't care much for it.'

'I can do de wabble dance for the wapses, den!' Freddie exclaimed.

'No, Freddie! Wasps don't do a waggle dance, only bees.'

'Den I will teach dem de wabble dance, OK?'

William was at a loss as to how to answer that. Freddie's logic was unfathomable, sometimes.

'Freddie, if you want to teach the wasps how to waggle, you do that,' Molly intervened, stroking Freddie's head, affectionately, then winked at William and mouthed,

'Just humour him, sweetie.'

William frowned and pursed his lips but let it go. He looked forward to the day when Freddie would understand things the way he did. He hoped it would come soon.

ooOoo

Arthur slid down the front of the sink unit and folded up on the cool lino floor. His stomach was empty, now, but the emetic that he had ingested, in the water, was still active so his muscles continued to contract and he heaved and retched, repeatedly, until his guts ached.

While Arthur had been rather preoccupied, hurling chunks of masticated Full English into the sink, Man in Black had brought a chair into the room and set it in front of the TV. The man now grabbed Arthur, roughly, under the arms and hauled him up, plonking him down on the chair, then standing behind him, holding his arms by the elbows in what wrestlers might call a 'full Nelson'.

Between involuntary spasms of his abdominals, Arthur growled,

'What the fuck…do you think…you're doing,…you meathead?'

'We want you to watch a film,' the therapist explained.

'Fine, I've got…nothing else on. But why…the wrestling hold?'

'We want you to watch.'

'Like I said…I'm available,' he rasped, then spat the bile that his stomach was squeezing up his oesophagus, onto the floor. 'But if he…holds me like this…I'm likely to CHOKE to death! Is that…what you want?' That last phrase was bellowed with all the vehemence his compromised position could muster.

At a signal from the man in charge, the other man let him go and he sat forward in the chair, holding his stomach, panting, retching and spitting. The other two men just stood and watched.

'Come on, then!' he barked, impatiently. 'Turn the fucking film on! I mean, that's what you brought me here for, isn't it, to watch your sordid little skin flicks?'

Man in Black walked over and turned on the TV then pressed 'Play' on the DVD player. Arthur rested his forearms on his thighs and stared at the screen. It was pretty much as he had expected. He settled down to watch, with a critical eye, as his guts continued to churn and his head swam with waves of nausea.

ooOoo

True to his word, Sherlock arrived at the main entrance to Mycroft's building just thirty minutes later. He was scanned and photographed and given an ID badge, which he refused to hang round his neck by the attached lanyard but clipped to his lapel, instead.

He was then escorted, in the ancient lift, to the third floor, where he was shown to an incident room. Anthea greeted him at the door and thanked the security man for delivering him safely, then led him over to an incident board. She didn't bother to explain it, just left him to scan it himself.

After a few moments of doing just that, Sherlock stepped back and spoke.

'Show me the CCTV of the snatch.'

Anthea led him to a desk with a computer terminal and pressed the relevant keys. The video image appeared and she clicked on the 'Play' icon.

The camera position – just above head height on the front wall of the bank – showed a view of the pavement, the road and the park. It was in black and white and a bit grainy but, when Arthur passed through shot, even though his back was to the camera, Sherlock recognised him, immediately, from his posture and gait.

Arthur paused at the crossing then jogged though a gap in the one way traffic, as it moved round the square. He entered the park and walked across the grass to a large tree, where he removed his jacket, placed it on the ground and sat on it. The view of him was now obscured by shrubbery and by the tree trunk itself, since Arthur was leaning against the far side.

A few moments elapsed, which Anthea fast forwarded. Having pressed 'Play' again, she pointed to two figures walking toward the camera from the opposite side of the park. They seemed to be heading past the tree but then they changed direction and veered towards Arthur. Anthea paused the video.

'Here, you can just about see that this man nods a greeting, as if he knows Arthur and Arthur knows him.'

She set the video running again and the two men crossed the grass and sat down, one to Arthurs left, where he could be seen in profile through the vegetation, and the other in front of the 'target', obscured by the tree.

'That's Frayne,' Anthea pointed out.

Frayne was talking, animatedly, and Arthur could be seen to raise a hand and gesture over his left shoulder. More conversation ensued then Arthur turned to point, with his right hand, toward the bank. At that juncture, something happened because Arthur suddenly clapped his hand to his neck.

Sherlock and Anthea watched as the young man seemed to freeze, momentarily, then toppled over, to his left. Frayne looked to be attending to him as one or two by-standers came over and, presumably, offered to help or showed concern for the fallen man but were waved away by the second man, who was now standing, with his back to the camera but in plain view, talking on a mobile phone.

Five minutes passed, while the two abductors went through the motions of attending to the man on the ground then two more men came on the scene, approaching from the left of picture, pulling and pushing a wheeled stretcher between them. They drew up beside the tree and all four of them lifted Arthur's unconscious body onto the stretcher. They secured his arms and legs with cross straps then the two stretcher bearers wheeled him away, across the grass and out of sight, Frayne and his accomplice following on behind.

Anthea clicked off the video and Sherlock rubbed his lower lip, processing what he had just observed.

'As ex-MI5, Frayne would be aware of the significance of Mycroft's role to British national security,' he said, at last

'Indeed. He would be a mine of information on that subject. But it seems increasingly unlikely that the Westminster Paedophile Ring has any relevance here. That cat is already out of the bag. But there are other possibilities, other things that Mr Holmes is working on, at the moment.

'Such as?'

'I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say – I hope you understand, Sherlock, there are certain lines I just can't cross. Not even to save Arthur.'

Sherlock did understand but that didn't make it any less frustrating. He felt as though he was groping around in the dark.

'But our people are following up on those leads,' Anthea added.

Sherlock changed tack.

'Have your people apprehended this – ' he checked the name on the incident board ' – Marcus Frayne yet?'

'No. We tracked him from Waterloo, once we got a handle on him, from the image your witness provided. He went via the Bakerloo line to Baker Street and then the Metropolitan line to King's Cross St Pancras. There, he boarded the Eurostar, bound for Brussels, which departed at 14.04. We don't know where he got off. We are trying to access the CCTV from the train and also from all the stations on the route, all the way to Brussels. But he had a two hour head start, before we even knew that Arthur was missing. He would have been in Brussels by just after 5 pm – 6 pm local time – if he went all the way. Interpol are assisting us with tracking him down.'

What about the other three men?'

'Nothing known. We don't have anything on any of them on any of our database.'

That was a lot of 'any's, amounting to zilch, Sherlock thought.

'We have circulated those images from the bank CCTV to all the regional police forces – including the Met, of course – but they don't have Fax Rex so it will have to be a full facial if we are hoping to get a match and, as you can see, the images are not that clear.

Sherlock pursed his lips and frowned.

ooOoo

Arthur was no expert when it came to pornography. On the subject of sex, he was more of an active participant than a passive observer. But he had watched porn films, from time to time, with his army mates – mostly guy on girl action, obviously, and the occasional girl on girl, which for some reason straight men seemed to find quite a turn on. However, despite his lack of a comparison, this gay porn was, in his opinion, pretty piss poor.

He had been watching it for atleast an hour and finding it hard to maintain his concentration, particularly as his guts continued to heave, occasionally, he had the most vile taste of stomach acid in his mouth and his throat still burned from the passage of the vomit. He desperately wanted a drink of water but none had been offered. He'd really had enough.

Turning to the therapist, he asked,

'How much more of this do I have to sit through?'

'Oh, we have hours. It seems there are no limits for those who would debase themselves in this way, indulging in their corrupt practices, sodomising one another, fornicating in the name of the Devil.'

'Look, pal,' Arthur replied, 'you might find this entertaining but I certainly do not. I mean to say, I'm no film critic but the standard of acting here is just abysmal. There is no chemistry what so ever between these men! It's totally unconvincing! And look – correct me if I'm wrong, since you clearly watch a lot more of this crap than I do – if you're going to bugger someone you really do need to have a hard on. That guy's pecker is as flaccid as a burst balloon! That's not wood, mate. That's wooden. If you really want to turn me on, you're going to have to do a lot better than this.'

The blow, when it came, was not unexpected and Arthur had tensed his body in anticipation, but it still hurt like hell. As he breathed through the shock and the pain, he turned again to look at his assailant, and gave him his best Holmesian lizard grin.

'Touched a nerve, did I?' he hissed.

'You know, Arthur,' the therapist said, slapping the sjambok into the palm of his hand, 'when I agreed to take on your case, your father told me he thought you had been bewitched by this older man, your head turned, led astray. But I see now that this is far from the truth. You've made an evil pact with Satan himself, sold your soul to the Devil.'

'You don't fool me,' Arthur growled, through gritted teeth. 'Like so many of your sort, you're in denial.'

'I want you to know that it gives me no pleasure, Arthur, to do what I have to do, but you leave me no choice,' the therapist insisted.

'I've met your sort before, you know. You think you've got it beat but you can't deny your true self,' Arthur continued, arching his back to ease the tension and the muscle spasms that the sjambok blow had caused.

'I had hoped you would see reason, when I showed you the error of your ways but you refuse to acknowledge the truth that's staring you in the face,' the therapist sighed, shaking his head, ruefully.

'It's the eyes that give it away, every time. I can see the longing and the lust when you watch those guys bump and grind. You want to fuck them, don't you?,' Arthur went on, as though the other man hadn't said a word.

'Don't make me do this, Arthur. I beg you, take this opportunity to cleanse your soul and save yourself.'

'How old were you when you realised who you really were? I was eleven when the penny finally dropped but I had suspected for a long time.' Arthur persevered with his provocative monologue

'Take my hand, Arthur! Take my hand and repent your sins.' The other man was winding himself up into a frenzy.

'You think that by denouncing people like me you can change your own nature but you're not fooling anyone, least of all, yourself!' Arthur raised his voice to match the volume of his oppressor.

'Don't do this, Arthur! Don't reject the hand of salvation!'

'Why don't you just accept it? You know you want to! You're a fag! A queer! A shirt-lifter! An uphill gardener! A fudge-packer! You. Are. Gay!' Arthur shouted then curled into a tight ball, tucking his head in against his knees and covering it with his arms, as the enraged therapist roared his anger and rained blows down on his back.

ooOoo


	16. Stolen Chapter Fifteen

**Nothing too nasty in this chapter.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

'No! No! Dr Knowles, stop!'

Arthur heard the voice shouting and, suddenly, the blows ceased and he heard the sound of struggling, as the Man in Black dragged the so-called therapist to the other side of the room.

'You need to calm down, doctor! Don't let him get to you! You can't kill him. That's not part of the deal.'

It was the first time MIB had spoken and Arthur was surprised at how authoritative he sounded. Up until that point, he had assumed the big man was a minion but this interaction put a different complexion on things.

Dr Knowles – as Arthur now knew him – was panting, raggedly, but his breathing gradually slowed and, at last, he said,

'Thank you, Blake. I'm sorry, you're right. I allowed myself to be goaded. But, I'm calm now. You can let go of me. It won't happen again.

'You should have a break,' Blake insisted. 'I'll deal with this.'

That sounded a bit ominous but, lying on the floor, still curled in a protective ball, Arthur was relieved to hear the door open and then close again, with Dr Knowles - and, presumably, his sjambok - on the far side. Once Knowles was gone, Blake walked over and squatted next to Arthur.

'You're a smart one, aren't you,' he said.

Arthur made no response other than to relax his body a little so that the tight curl became a loose one.

'I must say, I admire your guts. You did that knowing full well what he would do to you, but you still went with it.'

He clapped Arthur on the shoulder and said,

'Come on, let's get you on the bed. Can you stand?'

Slipping one hand under Arthur's left arm, he gave a tug to encourage him to get to his feet. Arthur took the hint and allowed the man to help him up and across to the bed, where he lay down, gingerly, on his side.

His back felt like one massive bruise. He could imagine it criss-crossed with angry purple welts but he didn't think the skin was broken. It didn't sting. It just ached.

Can I get you anything?' Blake asked.

'Who are you, then? Good cop?' Arthur rasped, sucking in the pain.

Blake laughed, heartily.

'Oh, no, mate! Far from it! I'm just here to make sure you survive. And I have a vested interest in that. If you die, I don't get paid.'

'That's very comforting,' Arthur grunted.

'Would you like some water?'

'Only if you drink some, first,' Arthur replied. He was desperate for water, actually, and would probably have drunk it whether Blake tasted it or not but he wasn't about to admit to that.

Blake just chuckled, again, and left the room but returned almost immediately with two plastic bottles of water. He offered one to Arthur but the young man just stared at him and did not reach out to take it. With a huff of amusement, Blake broke the seal, pulled out the spout and took a swig then offered the bottle again. Arthur took it and put the spout between his parched lips, turned his face to the ceiling and filled his mouth with water, swilled it around and leaned over the side of the bed to spit it out, on the floor. He then took a few long swigs, which he swallowed, gratefully.

Every movement was pure pain. His back was throbbing. He knew that ice should be applied, to reduce the swelling and inhibit the bruising but he was also pretty sure that none would be forthcoming.

'I'm going to leave you alone, now, to give you time to consider your options,' Blake advised him.

'Options? I have options?'

'Oh, yes, there are always options. You can co-operate, and make it easy on yourself, or you can resist and make it hard. One thing is for sure, if you keep doing what you're doing, things will definitely get worse. I've seen this guy's tool kit. You have no idea what he has in store for you, if you carry on the way you are.'

'Where are my clothes?' Arthur asked, giving no acknowledgement to the threat.

'You won't see those clothes again.'

'Where are they?' Arthur persisted.

'We cut them off you, on the way here, and dumped them in a Clothing Bank. They'll be shredded, by now, recycled, absorbed into the system.

This was devastating news. Arthur had built so much hope on the belief that his clothes were here, in this building, guiding Mycroft's people to him. Without them, how would anyone ever find him? He fought hard to keep his expression neutral, so as not to give away any information that might assist the enemy.

'And my watch and phone?' he asked, with a steady voice that belied his rising anxiety.

'I don't know about your watch. Your phone was used as a decoy.'

Arthur didn't understand what the man meant by that but he wasn't about to ask for clarification. However, Blake seemed to detect Arthur's confusion and he explained.

'We sent your phone in the opposite direction so that, if anyone tried to locate it – believe it or not, we know about Find My Phone!' He said this, with indignation, in response to Arthur's look of astonishment. Little did Blake know that the other man was thinking about a much more reliable tracker, hidden inside that particular phone.

'And my ring?'

'What ring?' Blake seemed to know nothing about a ring.

'Never mind,' Arthur replied, depressing the spout of the water battle and folding his arms across his chest, trying to find the least uncomfortable position on the narrow bed.

'Well, as I said, I'm going to leave you alone to think. Do yourself a favour, make the right decision.'

This time, Arthur let the man leave, noting that he had left the second water bottle behind – but untasted, so there was no way he would be drinking from it. He wanted to stretch out and let his muscles relax but the thought of rolling over onto his stomach was a daunting one. And rolling onto his back was a complete nonstarter.

He pulled the pillow out from under his head then took several deep breaths before holding one and forcing himself to turn onto his stomach, giving an involuntary groan as his back muscles objected, vehemently, to the effort they were being asked to make. But, once on his stomach, legs extended, toes touching the foot bar of the bed, he felt much more comfortable.

He needed to think. If Mycroft's men weren't, this very minute, on their way, it was even more imperative for him to escape. And, in order to do that, he needed to fool this Dr Knowles into believing that he was, at last, co-operating. He knew he had to be convincing. He couldn't make it look too easy or the man would surely smell a rat. If not him, then Blake. No, he had to make it realistic.

Arthur had done a bit of amateur dramatics at school but, apart from the odd mess room Christmas Pantomime, nothing since then. Despite the lack of practice, he would need to pull off the performance of his life.

ooOoo

The police had been out in Cavendish Square Gardens for most of the morning, interviewing members of the public, seeking witnesses to the incident involving Arthur, the day before. They weren't calling it an abduction. They didn't want to put false memories in anyone's head.

As midday approached, the shop and office workers began to trickle in, seeking a shady spot in which to enjoy their lunch break – read a book, take a nap, listen to music on their MP3 players. Almost immediately, the police began to get results.

'Oh, yes!' said one lady, nibbling on a stick of celery, filled with cream cheese. 'That young man who had the fit.'

'Did you see him have a fit?' asked the police officer.

'Oh, yes! I was sat right here, like always. He was sat under that tree. I remember thinking how maybe I should have sat under the tree, cos the sun was really hot but I always sit here. Everyone has their favourite spot, don't they?'

'So what did you see, madam?' the officer asked, patiently.

'Well, OK, he was sat under that tree, eating his lunch, and his friends must have come along cos they was there when he had the fit. They were very good, his friends. They knew exactly what to do. Still, I suppose if they are his friends and he has a lot of fits, they would have to know what to do, wouldn't they? Anyway, one of them put him in the recovery position – I learned about that on a First Aid course, the recovery position – and the other one phoned the ambulance.'

'And did an ambulance come?' prompted the police officer.

'Oh, yes, a right skanky old thing it was, too. Looked like something out of Heartbeat. Cut backs, I suppose. Making do. Anyway, the ambulance come really quick and they put the young bloke on a trolley and wheeled him away.'

'Away where, madam?'

'Away to the ambulance, of course,' the woman said, rolling her eyes at the officer's stupid question. 'They put him in the ambulance and drove him away.'

'And did his friends go with him?'

Oh! Er…actually, no, they didn't. I expect they had to get back to work. And he was in safe hands so…'

'And did you notice the licence plate number of the ambulance?'

'No. Why would I? It was an ambulance!'

The constable took her name and address, thanked her for her time and moved on to the next person.

By the end of the lunch time period, the police had gathered information from several eye witnesses. All the statements were delivered to the incident room, to be collated and analysed.

Sherlock, who felt he had been kicking his heels for most of the morning, fell on these statements like a hungry hound, almost snatching them from the hands of the bearer. In next to no time, he had created a SOC map, on a previously blank white board. Drawn using whiteboard markers, and notated in Sherlock's scrawled upper case hand, the two-dimensional representation of Arthur's kidnap was realised, for all to see.

Anthea and Delaney watched, slightly in awe, as he feverishly created the masterpiece – pen in one hand, sheaf of statements in the other, shuffling them backwards and forwards, like a pack of cards – drawing matchstick men and dotted lines, indicating sight lines with different colours, marking entrances and exits with directional arrows and indicating temporal intervals with a little symbol of a stopwatch. When he finally stopped scribbling and stepped back, everyone heaved a sigh, unaware that they had even been holding their breath.

'There,' he said, enigmatically.

Delaney frowned, in bewilderment, and Anthea said, for everyone else's benefit,

'Could you talk us through it, please?'

Sherlock looked exasperated but gritted his teeth and set off rattling, at breakneck speed, gesticulating flamboyantly at various elements of the diagram, to emphasise each point.

'These two men – the ones referred to as his 'friends' – they've had him under surveillance for a few days. They've worked out his routine and come up with a plan. Now they need to win his trust. So they walk through the park every day, make sure he notices them. They are about his age so that would make them socially acceptable as potential companions. They ingratiate themselves – smile, nod, say hello and walk on. Except yesterday, on the day of the snatch, they approach and ask if they can join him – probably under the pretext of seeking shade from the sun.'

'This one – Frayne – engages him in conversation, asks him where he works, perhaps. On the CCTV, we saw Arthur gesticulate over his shoulder, indicating the direction in which he had come – perhaps indicating where he had come from. Frayne asks for clarification, he is running interference, keeping Arthur distracted while the second man prepares to incapacitate him.

When Arthur turns his back to point at the alleyway, the accomplice strikes with a hypodermic, delivering a fast-acting anaesthetic to the carotid artery. By the time Arthur realises what's happening, it's already too late.

Now the two men have to control the audience. One attends to the patient, the other calls for backup and keeps the nosey parkers at bay with the cover story – an epileptic seizure.

The bogus ambulance must have been nearby, waiting for the call. There's every possibility that someone else – a passer-by – might have called a real ambulance so they have to act fast and get Arthur away before the second ambulance arrives and blows the gaff. So check CCTV, in the area, for an old make and model of ambulance – several witnessed mentioned that the ambulance was not a modern one – and get a licence number, so we can find out who is it's registered keeper.

The ambulance arrives, they bring up a stretcher, get Arthur on it and – whoosh – he's gone! Taken, in broad daylight, in front of at least fifty witnesses, none of whom suspect a thing. Brilliant!'

Sherlock stood, gazing at the diagram of the crime scene, marvelling at the audacity of the plan and the slickness if its execution. Delaney just stared at him, aghast. Did this man have no concern for his brother's partner, at all?

Sherlock caught him staring and looked puzzled.

'Problem?' he asked.

'No, not at all,' Anthea intervened, to spare everyone's feelings.

Sherlock turned back to the diagram.

'This Frayne person,' he commented, 'you trained him well. No wonder the CIA use him. He's an artist. We need to find the ambulance on CCTV.'

ooOoo


	17. Stolen Chapter Sixteen

**This is a short but significant chapter. Some references to possible torture but no descriptions, graphic or otherwise. **

**Chapter Sixteen**

Molly and Michele spent the morning at the local play group, with Katy, Charlie, Freddie and Violet. Mycroft wanted to keep the children's daily structure consistent, to give them a sense of normality – even though this situation was anything but normal, as evidenced by the two men in dark suits and dark glasses who escorted them there and back and stood guard, outside the village hall, throughout the playgroup session.

Mycroft and William, in the company of Charles Meadows, the Estate Manager, did the rounds of the estate – which would have happened at the weekend, had Mycroft's services not been required at Westminster, engaged in damage limitation. Checking in with the tenant farmers and other estate workers kept his mind occupied, too, although Arthur was never far from his thoughts.

They all met up again at lunch, which Mrs Orgreave served in the garden, as it was such a lovely, warm July day. While the children were fully engaged with the repast, Molly asked Mycroft, discreetly, whether there had been any developments, during the morning.

Mycroft informed her about the CCTV images of the snatch and the identification of Marcus Frayne, whom he had actually met on more than one occasion, in the line of business, when the man still worked for the Establishment, rather than for himself.

'He was a clever young man, a very quick learner, and an excellent strategist. I do feel that perhaps we should charge people course fees when they leave the service so soon after completing their training. It seems rather unfair to expect the British tax payers to fund them, especially when they go and use their skills against us.'

'Who do you think he could be working for on this occasion?' Molly asked.

'We have a number of suspect groups, movements and individuals in mind, based on the issues with which I have been involved in recent months. We have a number of their representatives helping us with our enquiries, having rounded them up in a sequence of dawn raids, this morning but so far they are either keeping schtum - or they are genuinely not involved. Only time and effort will tell us which.'

Molly didn't ask for any more details. She knew that there was a dark side to Mycroft's role in the Government and she preferred not to think about the manner in which these suspects might be 'helping' her brother-in-law's people.

'But the police are hopeful that they will get some witness statements in the park this lunchtime, so we might have some news soon,' Mycroft concluded, with forced brightness, then turned his attention to the children, drawing a line under the conversation.

ooOoo

Arthur had been left alone for nearly an hour and had spent the time, as advised, reviewing his options. He had come to the conclusion that, physically compromised as he was, following the beating, this was not likely to improve in the near future and was far more likely to deteriorate, if Dr Knowles got to work with his tool kit.

So regardless of how painful it was going to be, if he was going to try to get up to the window – for a look outside or to make an attempt to escape – he had to do it now. He had visually scanned the room and could see nothing that looked like a CCTV camera. That was not to say he was not being observed –cameras could be tiny yet still effective – but he had to take his chance. If the MIB charged in and dragged him down, then at least he knew where he stood, as regards surveillance.

Arthur steeled his resolve, took several deep, preparatory breaths, then went into action. He pushed up with his arms, drew in one knee to plant a foot on the mattress, and stood up, compartmentalising the pain, refusing to acknowledge its very existence. He turned to face the window wall and moved down to the end of the bed, which just overlapped with the opening above.

He flexed his knees, testing the relative springiness of the bed mattress and base and estimating how much force might be required to push him high enough to reach the windowsill with his arms extended. Calculations complete, he crouched then leaped.

His fingers hooked over the edge of the windowsill and he clung on, tensing his biceps and triceps to take the weight of his body, as he hung there and found some purchase on the wall with his bare toes. With a monumental effort and a combination of pulling with his arms and pushing with his legs, he dragged himself upwards, until his chin was level with the windowsill, then scrabbled one forearm onto the ledge, to take the pressure off his fingers.

He paused and took a few moments to re-oxygenate his muscles with some deep breaths, then pulled himself higher still until he could get his second forearm onto the ledge, with his head and shoulders above the windowsill. From this angle, he could see outside and, despite his back muscles screaming in protest at the strain of maintaining this position, he took the time to take a good look round at the location.

His first shock was the realisation that the room in which he was imprisoned was several floors above ground level. So any hopes of using the window as an escape route were doused, immediately. The second shock was that he recognised the location. He had been here before.

As this realisation dawned, he heard a sound outside the locked door and pushed off the wall, to drop, feet first, onto the bed. Only then did he give in to the pain in his back and shoulders, as his knees gave way and he collapsed forward onto the mattress, and shook in delayed reaction to the agony that the physical exertion had cost him.

ooOoo

'We have an image of an ambulance – an old-style ambulance, certainly not one that the London Ambulance Service would be likely to be using – parked up, two streets away, an hour before the snatch,' Anthea announced. 'It was given a ticket for parking on a Red Route. We ran the licence number. It's fake. It actually belonged to a Renault Cleo that was scrapped, two years ago, in Huddersfield..

Sherlock's ears pricked.

'Huddersfield?'

'Yes, it's in...'

'I know where Huddersfield is,' he snapped, rather testily. Anthea grimaced in apology.

'That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?'

'A coincidence with what?'

'Arthur is from that part of the world, isn't he?'

'Arthur is from Greater Manchester. Huddersfield is in West Yorkshire…'

'Yes, as I just said, I know that,' Sherlock snapped again, taking out his iPhone and tapping at it, furiously. He showed the screen to Anthea.

'Huddersfield has a direct train link to Stalybridge. If you wanted to buy a fake number plate, you wouldn't buy it at your local scrap yard, would you? You'd go a bit further afield.'

'But, Sherlock, what does this have to do with Arthur being abducted?' Anthea could not see the significance.

'Have you spoken to his sisters, yet?'

'No, we're still in news blackout.'

'I think we're on the wrong track,' Sherlock exclaimed, fishing Arthur's phone out of his pocket.

'Look at these texts.' He showed them to Anthea.

_How's everything?_

_Everything OK?_

_How's things?_

She looked at them and back to him, with a shrug, still not seeing the point.

'Something happened, up there, when he went home. He had hardly spoken to his family for months, ever since he and my brother became...intimate. He went there for three days but came back after only two and, since then, he's texted one or the other of his sisters every day.'

'But what does that have to do with him being kidnapped? You're not suggesting his family are behind this, are you?'

'Why not?' Sherlock was quite agitated, now. His brain, which had been idling in neutral, marking time, since he completed the SOC diagram earlier, was suddenly in hyper drive - cogs spinning, claxons sounding and lights flashing.

Anthea had great respect for Sherlock's powers of deduction but this seemed too absurd.

'Why on earth would they want to kidnap their own son?' she demanded.

He, however, was finding her obtuseness infuriating.

'I have no idea. Why don't we ask them?' he snapped back, again.

He was about to speed dial Rosie's number but Anthea put a firm hand on his and stopped him.

'Wait! We need to run this by Mr Holmes, first.'

Sherlock all but screeched with exasperation. The Northern connection seemed so glaringly obvious to him.

'Fine! Run it by him! And don't take all day about it!' he spat and stalked off to study the incident board, again – not because he thought he might learn anything new from it but because he needed to mentally rearrange all the connections.

ooOoo


	18. Stolen Chapter Seventeen

**No torture here, either, but the expression of some rather extreme religious views. Can I just repeat that these are the views held by the characters, they are not my views.**

**Chapter Seventeen**

Molly was sitting in the shade of the large oak tree, feeding Violet. The teething problems had abated and she now had two central incisors in her lower gum to show for all her suffering. Molly had resumed breast feeding and, after a couple of accidental nips, Violet had gotten the hang of suckling without biting Mummy, much to Molly's relief. She had missed the intimacy of nursing her baby. Somehow, the breast pump just didn't have the same appeal.

She still expressed milk and, since her production rates were more than sufficient for Violet's needs, sent the surplus to St Thomas's Hospital for their Mother and Baby Unit. And Sherlock continued with his middle of the night bottle feeding sessions. Violet was still waking at around two am. Molly suspected that she and Sherlock had made a secret pact to meet up, nightly, for clandestine play sessions.

Mycroft and Michele were supervising the other four children on the Jungle Gym. William was still the undisputed champion of this particular discipline. His balance and co-ordination were streets ahead of the other three and not just because of his four year age advantage. He had always been utterly fearless where heights were concerned. Mycroft still marvelled at the similarities between his nephew and his brother, at a comparable age. It was uncanny and not a little unnerving.

Of the other three children, Katy was the next most agile but she managed to imbue all her movements with a ladylike grace that reminded Mycroft of his mother. She had also inherited her grandmother's ability to destroy with a look. 'Withering' did not begin to cover it! Poor Charlie, who was Katy's victim of choice more often than not, had no rebuttal for his sister's scathing disapproval. He just quailed.

Freddie, on the other hand, was not remotely daunted by Katy's superior attitude. When she tried to stare him down, he would say,

'I not listenin' to your looks, Katy,'

and simply turn away. Charlie had a bit of a boy-crush on Freddie and followed him around everywhere – partly for protection. Freddie, on the other hand, thought Charlie was the most fun playmate ever. They each had their own special interests but were more than happy to join in with anything the other one suggested.

And, at the moment, the game was 'Follow the Leader', climbing up the scramble net or one of the ladders, trotting over the suspension bridge or swinging across the monkey bars, and sliding down the wooden pole or the metal slide – then doing it all over again. William was leading the way, varying his technique by occasionally shinning up the wooden pole and commando diving down the scramble net, two manoeuvres that completely stumped the other three children.

Mycroft and Michele were acting as referees and giving a helping hand, when required, and lots of verbal encouragement. But when the mobile rang in Mycroft's pocket, he excused himself and walked away, out of hearing range, to answer the call which he saw was from Anthea.

'Sir, we have a development of sorts,' she opened.

Mycroft heard the reservation in her voice and asked for an explanation.

She went on to outline Sherlock's theory about the identity of the abductors. Mycroft was as sceptical as his PA.

'Let me speak to him,' he instructed.

Anthea handed the phone to the pacing detective.

'Sherlock, I really cannot…'

'Mycroft, you are blinkered! You have assumed from the beginning that you are the intended target and that Arthur is just a pawn in the game. But what if he was the intended target all along? What if this has nothing whatsoever to do with you and your importance to the security of this country? It is the only solution that fits all the clues!'

'But, Sherlock…'

'Arthur has been gone for more than twenty-four hours yet there has been no ransom demand. What kind of kidnapper makes no demands? The sort that already has what they want – they have Arthur.'

'Sherlock, listen to…'

'NO, Mycroft!' Sherlock roared. 'Listen to me! This is NOT about you! It's about HIM!'

Mycroft closed his eyes and heaved a deep, inpatient sigh.

'Money!' he snapped.

'What? What money? What about money?' Sherlock spluttered.

'How much do you imagine this snatch operation has cost? Frayne's fee alone would be a minimum of five figures and that's just the beginning. Arthur's family are ordinary, working class people. They are not rich. Where would they find the resources to finance such an operation? And how would they even know where to start? Frayne doesn't exactly advertise his services in the Yellow Pages.'

Sherlock rubbed his forehead and lowered his voice, so that only his brother could hear.

'Mycroft, please. I just _know_ that this is about Arthur, not about you – or, at least, not about your position. I have no idea how his family financed this snatch or even why they ordered it, in the first place, but I _do_ know that something happened, when Arthur went home, which has resulted in him being kidnapped. _I just know it!_'' That last sentence was hissed down the phone with all the intensity that Sherlock's frustration could put into it. 'Let me ring his sisters, talk to them, find out what they know.'

Mycroft could feel his brother's anxiety. He could not reconcile the idea that Arthur's own family could be responsible for this situation with his knowledge of their somewhat lowly, mundane, _normal_ life style. But he could tell that Sherlock had the bit between his teeth on this and would not rest until he had tested his theory.

'Very well,' he said, at last.

'Yes!' Sherlock punched the air, like a teenager, and practically jumped for joy.

'BUT - ' Mycroft brought him back to earth again. 'Don't ring them. I want you to go there, speak to them face to face, and make sure they understand that this is not yet in the public domain and must remain that way until we know what or who we are dealing with. Do you understand?'

'Yes, of course I understand. I'm just as concerned about Arthur as you are.' Sherlock snorted – then regretted what he had said. 'Actually, I know that's probably not true,' he added, 'and I will keep a lid on the situation, I promise.'

'See that you do,' Mycroft replied. 'And take someone with you. DON'T go on your own.'

'I will take John,' Sherlock reassured him. 'He'll keep me right. He always does.'

ooOoo

On entering the room in which Arthur was imprisoned, Dr Knowles and Blake discovered their captive lying prone, on the bed, barely conscious, flushed, sweating and trembling, violently.

Blake crossed the floor in three strides and pressed two fingers to pulse point under Arthur's jaw. His heart rate was racing. The MIB turned to the other man and said,

'You're a doctor – of sorts. Do you have such a thing as a thermometer in that bag of yours?'

The doctor looked at him, askance. 'I'm not that kind of doctor!' he exclaimed.

Arthur opened his eyes and gazed, blankly, at Blake then closed them again, still shaking.

'What's wrong with him?' asked the doctor.

'How the fuck should I know?' Blake growled. 'I'm not any sort of doctor! Maybe he's reacting to that drug you gave him? Maybe you damaged his kidneys when you beat him? Maybe he's in shock?'

'Cover him with the blanket,' the doctor ordered, reacting to the word 'shock'.

Arthur was lying on top of the blanket so Blake had to roll him, in order to pull it out from underneath his body. The movement caused him to gasp and groan, involuntarily, but he offered no resistance. Blake draped the blanket over the prone man and turned to the doctor.

What now?'

'We need to give him water, lots of water, to make him pee. If there's blood in his urine that would suggest he has kidney damage.'

Blake glared at his companion.

'If he dies…' He left the sentence unfinished, for Knowles to fill in the blanks, and left the room to get some more bottles of water.

In his absence, the therapist reached into his 'tool kit' and took out a Bible. He walked over to the chair that Arthur had occupied earlier, for the film show, and sat down. He leafed through the book until he found the page he was looking for. Then he began to read, aloud.

'"Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God." Corinthians 6:9-10.

He paused, as Blake returned to the room, with four 500ml bottles of water.

'"Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable."Leviticus 18:22,' Knowles continued.

Blake glanced, cynically, in the doctor's direction as he crossed to the bed and spoke to Arthur, whose eyelids were slightly parted, showing a sliver of brown iris.

'I've brought you some water. There's nothing in it. See?'

He broke the seal, pulled out the spout and took a swig.

'"If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads." Leviticus 20:13, the doctor droned on.

'Come on, roll over and drink,' he urged the recumbent man then put his hand under Arthur's shoulder and pushed him onto his side. With a sharp intake of breath, Arthur rolled his hips to assist with the change of position. He really needed that water. His mouth was dry.

Once the 'patient' was properly positioned, Blake held the water bottle so that he could drink. He glugged down about half the contents without even pausing for breath.

'"Because of this, God gave them over to shameful lusts. Even their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural ones. In the same way the men also abandoned natural relations with women and were inflamed with lust for one another. Men committed indecent acts with other men, and received in themselves the due penalty for their perversion." Romans 1:26-27.'

Knowles finished his monologue and closed the Bible, holding it to his heart, eyes closed, with a rapturous expression on his face.

Blake and Arthur both ignored him, as the second half of the contents of the bottle were dispatched. Then Blake turned to the zealot and said,

'Since you seem to have a direct line to that god of yours, you better put in a request to make sure this guy doesn't snuff it. My boss will not be happy if we lose him. He hasn't fulfilled his purpose yet.'

And on that note, the MIB left the room.

Arthur, who was nowhere near as seriously injured as he was making out – though he was in a huge amount of pain – heard this utterance with a sharp rise in curiosity. He hadn't fulfilled his purpose? What on earth could his purpose be, he wondered?

Meanwhile, Mr God Botherer (a new name that Arthur had just applied to the so-called doctor) was talking again, though not reading this time, even though what he was saying sounded like a prepared speech.

'You know, Arthur, all denominations of Christianity have their own views on homosexuality, this is true. But I believe – and I think you do, too, if you're honest with yourself - that homosexuality is a behavior that a Christian can be delivered from.'

Arthur closed his eyes and let the man whitter on. It was actually quite soothing, like listening to a bedtime story – with a similar basis of reality to the text.

'But even if you believe that, with all your heart, it's still not going to be easy to achieve deliverance. And, trust me, Arthur, I understand how discouraging it can be to pray for deliverance and yet still feel attracted to a person of the same sex.'

Arthur put s big mental tick in the 'Closet Gay' box, next to Knowles's name. Just as he had suspected.

'But, the fact that you are struggling, Arthur, doesn't mean that God isn't listening to you. He is listening, believe me, and he wants to help you. But he can only help you if you help yourself.'

Lulled by the man's monotonous tone, Arthur felt himself drifting off to sleep, secure in the knowledge that, in the first instance, since his gaolers did not know that he had been up at the window, that meant there was no surveillance in the room, and in the second instance, his rapid pulse and flushed appearance from the physical exertion of climbing up to the window had been interpreted as illness, and had saved him from another beating or perhaps worse.

Coupled with his new-found knowledge of the actual location of his prison, Arthur felt almost hopeful that he would be able to get out of here under his own steam, even if Mycroft had no clue as to where he might be.

'If you really want to be saved from homosexuality, as I am sure you do, you might be thinking that your prayers are being ignored,' Knowles continued.

'Every day will feel like an uphill battle. But this is a necessary process, Arthur. It's essential that a Christian, like yourself, struggling to be freed from the tyranny of certain desires, must understand that deliverance can never be instant. Deliverance from homosexuality has to be long and difficult. Otherwise you might think it was too easy and, therefore, not something precious. For a thing to be worthwhile, it must be worth fighting for, yes?'

He paused for an acknowledgement from his audience but all he got was the slow, steady breathing of a sleeping man.

Undaunted, he went on, anyway.

'Have faith, Arthur, that God is with you, holding your hand, every single step of the way. And, if you are steadfast and patient, eventually you will see progress.'

Knowles sat nodding, sagely, and Arthur dreamed of being in the arms of the man he loved, safe and secure in Mycroft's warm embrace.

ooOoo


	19. Stolen Chapter Eighteen

**No torture references here, either.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

Sherlock handed the phone back to Anthea and, without another word, walked out of the Incident Room and along to the antiquated lift, texting John Watson as he went:

_Need urgent assist. Meet Euston ASAP, to go North. Bring gun. SH_

His friend responded immediately, as though he had been waiting for such a summons which, of course, he had.

_Meet in 1 hour. Bag packed already, gun too. _

Travelling down to the Ground Floor, he checked train times and booked two First Class tickets to Stalybridge, via Manchester Piccadilly, for the 16.20 train, then he speed-dialed Molly's mobile.

She, too, seemed to be expecting his call.

'What's happened?' was her opening salvo.

'I'm going to talk to Arthur's family. I know they are involved in this. I don't know how and I don't know why, so I'm going there to ask them. Mycroft doesn't believe me but he's agreed it – probably just to get me out of the way – and John is coming along,' Sherlock explained, as he strode from the Whitehall building and hailed a passing cab.

Molly had watched Mycroft walk away from the Jungle Gym. She could tell, by the way he pinched the bridge of his nose and looked to the heavens, that he was talking to her husband. And now she could hear the agitation in Sherlock's voice, the sound of a human blood hound fastening onto a scent and giving voice. She was relieved to know that John was involved. She knew how reckless Sherlock could be, when the Game was On. He would be deaf and blind to everything but his quarry.

'Don't be too hard on Mycroft,' she pleaded. 'He is desperately worried about Arthur.'

'It would be nice if he trusted me,' Sherlock replied, bitterly.

'I trust you. If you believe Arthur's family are implicated then, however improbable that may seem, I believe it.'

'Thank you,' he murmured, humbled by her unquestioning faith in him.

'But, please, take care. Your babies and I need you back in one piece.'

Having climbed into the cab and given the driver the Baker Street address, Sherlock sat back in the seat and said,

'How are you and my babies?'

'William and Freddie are OK. I've told them that you're helping Arthur with something important. William suspects foul play but is coping. Freddie is just enjoying being in the countryside. But Violet really missed you last night. She was not impressed when it was me who turned up at playtime.'

'I missed her, too. I miss you all,' he breathed. 'So the sooner I get to the bottom of this, the better!' came a determined declaration.

Molly looked down into Violet's sea green eyes. The little girl had stopped suckling and was looking around, with a little crinkle between her brows. Her mother chuckled.

'I think she just heard your voice,' she laughed. 'She's looking for you!'

'Put me on Speaker Phone,' Sherlock requested then, after a short pause, said,

'Violet Augusta Hooper-Holmes, are you receiving me?'

The baby's eyes lit up at the sound of her father's disembodied voice and she broke into a gummy grin, as she struggled to sit upright and look around for the man himself.

'Daddy's in the phone, baby,' Molly tried to explain, holding the mobile in front of Violet's face, so she could home in on the source of the sound.

'I'm here, in this little box!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'Help me, Violet! Help me! I'm the ghost in the machine!'

Violet reached out and grasped the phone in two hands, pulling it to her mouth and gnawing at the top right corner.

'No, don't chew it, silly-billy!' Molly giggled.

'No! Don't eat me, Violet! I'm your daddy, not your lunch!' Sherlock wailed.

As Molly moved the phone away from Violet's questing lips, the little girl voiced a loud protest and tried to claw it back but Sherlock was speaking, again, so she stopped to listen.

'Are the boys there, too?' he asked. 'Can I speak to them?'

Molly waved her hand in the air to attract her sons' attention, and called,

'William! Freddie! Come over here, sweeties!'

The brothers scrambled down from the Jungle Gym and ran to their mother.

'Daddy's on the phone,' she explained and offered the mobile, Speaker Phone off now, for one of the boys to chat. Freddie took the initiative and the phone.

'Heyyo, Daddy, are you tumin' home soon?'

'Hello, Freddie. I'm not coming home today. I have to go on a train journey but I hope I won't be away for too long. Are you being good for Mummy?'

'Ob-torce I is, Daddy!' Freddie exclaimed, 'I is or'ways a good boy!'

'Yes, of course, you are, Freddie, my mistake. I apologise. Are you having fun?'

'Yep, lops an' lops ob fun, fan-tu.'

'Oh, well, that's good. Is William there?'

'Yes, he here. I gib him to you. Bye, Daddy!'

Freddie handed the phone to William and then turned to Violet, who had finished her feed and was now peering over her mother's shoulder, as Molly rubbed her back, to bring up her wind.

'Ada, hab you finist your dinner? Wad it nice?'

Violet just giggled and waved her hands at her brother, kicking her legs with glee. Freddie was definitely her second favourite playmate.

'Hello, Daddy,' William said, turning away with the phone, for a private conversation with his father.

'Hello, Will. Everything OK?'

'Are you still safe?' William asked.

'Yes, I am still safe,' Sherlock replied, wishing for the umpteenth time that his eldest son were a good deal less perceptive.

'Where are you?'

'I'm on my way to Baker Street but Uncle John and I are taking a ride on a train, later.'

'Is Uncle Arthur with you?'

'No, not at the moment.'

'Is Uncle Arthur safe?'

Sherlock pursed his lips. He couldn't lie to William but neither could he tell him the truth. The pause was just a fraction too long.

'Alright, Daddy, I understand,' said William.

'I'll explain everything when I get home, I promise,' Sherlock assured him.

'You take care, Daddy. And take care of Uncle Arthur, too.'

'I will, William, don't you worry. Can I talk to Mummy now?'

'Yes, Daddy. Bye bye,' William replied then handed the phone back to Molly, before walking across to the Jungle Gym, where he climbed right to the top and sat, deep in thought.

'I will call you tonight, let you know I'm OK,' Sherlock promised.

'You make sure you are and make sure you do,' Molly replied. 'Love you.'

'Love you, too,' he whispered and cut the connection, just as the cab pulled up outside 221B.

ooOoo

When Arthur awoke from his litany-induced nap, the 'therapist' had gone. He was alone, again. He rolled onto his back and instantly regretted doing so but decided it was less painful to lie still than it would be to roll over again so he stared at the ceiling and reviewed his situation, yet again.

The room he was in, having no form of ventilation, smelt very stale, now. The sink was still clogged with his vomit and the floor spattered, here and there, with the bile, saliva and water he had spat out at various points during the course of his incarceration. It was, generally speaking, a most unpleasant environment but he comforted himself with the knowledge that it was just as unpleasant – perhaps more so – for the other two men as it was for him.

To be frank, he'd been in worse smelling places. Digging through the rubble of bombed out homes, in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, looking for survivors amongst the dead bodies, in the heat of the blazing sun – that had smelt a whole lot worse than this. He shut off that line of thought, preferring not to dwell on such matters.

Back in the present, he balanced the pros and the cons.

He had convinced his captors, temporarily at least, that he was unwell but it was going to be impossible to maintain that subterfuge for any length of time. Even if he did endless press ups when he was alone, to keep his pulse rate up and make himself hot and sweaty, they would no doubt catch him in the act, sooner or later, and then the game would be up.

He was aware that Blake was less than enamoured of the good doctor and wondered whether he could inveigle his way into that man's confidence, perhaps make a deal with him to assist his escape. But that seemed unlikely, since it would appear that MIB worked for the man who had actually instigated this whole fiasco – and Arthur had a good idea who that person was.

So, it was back to Plan B – affect a dramatic change of heart, give the Reparationist what he wanted and bring this ridiculous farce to a speedy conclusion. Having made that decision, Arthur set about planning how to go about it. By the time Knowles and Blake returned, he knew exactly how he was going to proceed.

'Ah, the patient is awake again – and looking a lot better!' Knowles exclaimed, with false joviality.

'No thanks to you,' Arthur muttered, eyeing the sjambok, warily.

'Now, Arthur, as I've explained, this is for your own good. Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind. Sometimes a rude awakening is just what's needed to make a subject see the error of their ways.'

'For my own good? What do you know about what's good for me?' Arthur replied, bitterly. 'You have no idea what I've had to go through, in my life.'

'Why don't you tell me, Arthur? I want to hear about your troubles.'

Arthur fixed him with a suspicious glare, as though considering whether he should trust this man with the intimate details of his life story. Knowles returned his glare with what he intended to be an encouraging smile, though it more closely resembled a lecherous leer.

Following a brief internal debate, Arthur seemed to come to a decision and said,

'Have you any idea what it's like to grow up in a household full of women, with a father who is impossible to please? Whatever I did, it was never good enough for him.' He managed to put a depth of anguish into this pronouncement that surprised even him.

Knowles was almost beside himself with excitement. This confession keyed right into the pet theory of Reparationists everywhere, that male homosexuality was a product of the lack of bonding with a father figure and an over-exposure to female influences, during childhood. Arthur, of course, was well aware of this, having watched a TV documentary on Reparation Therapy , quite recently, unbeknown to Knowles. He was giving the quack therapist exactly what he wanted.

'Actually, Arthur, I do know what that is like. Why do you think I chose this line of work, made it my vocation? I have met so many young men, just like yourself, who have had this aberrant style of up-bringing.'

It was all Arthur could do not to snort with derision. The true nature of his childhood could not have been more different from the one he had described. He had been the apple of his father's eye, since the day he was born. His dad had taken him fishing, walking on the moors, to Lads and Dads football on Sunday mornings, had watched him play rugby for his school and then for the county. And, as an adult, Arthur Senior had shown him off at the pub, over a jar or two, and bragged about his soldierly exploits.

All of this father-to-son adoration was the very thing that had made it so difficult for Arthur to come out about his sexuality. He really did not want to break his father's heart.

Summoning all his latent thespian abilities, Arthur suddenly threw his arm across his face and released a strangled sob.

'I've tried so hard to fight it! I hate these feelings that I have, this craving for affection, this desperate need for my father's approval. That's what my partner gives me. He's the father that I never had!'

Knowles laid a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder.

'But this man has abused your trust, Arthur. He has exploited your desperate need for his own lascivious purposes. He's not a father to you, he's your abuser. He has groomed you for sex.'

'Oh, god! You're right!' Arthur gulped, channelling all the guilt he felt at this dreadful misrepresentation of his true relationship with Mycroft into his performance.

'Let it out, Arthur! Don't hold back! You must release the pain!'

Arthur was in full flow, now, exploiting his previously suppressed sense of desperation, as a prisoner at the mercy of this mad man. His body shook with wracking sobs, mucus streamed from his nostrils and tears poured, in profusion, from his eyes, running down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow and his hair.

Blake observed this dramatic scene, from the other side of the room, with a cynical squint. He was unconvinced. But Knowles was completely taken in. He saw this as a great step in the right direction. He reached out to stroke Arthur's head, in a gesture of sympathy, but the young man pushed the hand away.

'Don't touch me!' he bellowed. 'I don't want your fake sympathy! You don't care about me at all!'

'I do, Arthur, trust me,. I do!' the other man insisted.

'No! You are a liar! If you cared about me, you wouldn't leave me in this stinking room, wallowing in my own sweat, breathing the foul stench of my piss and puke in that filthy sink! God, I feel so dirty!'

Despite the pain it induced in his back and shoulders, Arthur rolled over, turning his back on the quasi-physician and weeping, inconsolably, into his pillow. Knowles turned to Blake, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

'I never fail,' he boasted.

Blake just twisted his mouth, in a sardonic grimace, and said nothing.

ooOoo


	20. Stolen Chapter Nineteen

**No triggers in this chapter, though quite a bit of swearing!**

**Chapter Nineteen**

Having met in the main concourse, at Euston, and boarded the train, John and Sherlock took their seats and, as the train pulled smoothly from the station, the steward served them coffee and Sherlock brought his companion up to speed with what they knew about Arthur's disappearance.

John could see Mycroft's point of view. How could Arthur's family possibly have the wherewithal to sanction such an action? It made no sense. But he knew better than to voice these reservations. Sherlock had asked him along to provide back up and, whatever may transpire during this jaunt 'Up North', he would have his friend's back. His not to reason why, his but to do or die – though preferably NOT die.

Once he had passed on all the relevant information, pertaining to the case, Sherlock lapsed into silence and closed himself off from his immediate surroundings, retreating into his Mind Palace, where he stayed for the greater part of the journey. John amused himself, reading the complimentary newspapers and taking full advantage of the complimentary menu. Sherlock drank his coffee, mechanically, and when the empty mug was replaced by a fresh, full one, he drank that one, too.

As the train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, the consulting detective came back to life, jumped to his feet and dragged his valise from the overhead storage before striding, purposefully, to the nearest exit and stepping off the train the moment that door opened, leaving John to follow in his wake. Dr Watson was well accustomed to this protocol and took no offense. He knew better than most how detached and withdrawn Sherlock became, when he was on a case. It was a crucial aspect of the way he worked, constantly scanning, analysing and abstracting.

They made their way through the rush hour foot traffic, that was milling about in the main concourse, to the Transpennine platform and, amongst all the strap-hanging commuters, squeezed on board the local train that would take them to Arthur's home town, duplicating Arthur's own journey, of just two weeks before. John noted how Sherlock stood out like a sore thumb, with his sharp, angular features and aloof bearing, staring into space, seeing nothing.

He also had a private chuckle at the way the other passengers edged away from the tall detective, giving him a wide berth, never bumping into or jostling him. The doctor shook his head, ruefully, as he was pinned against the side panel of the carriage by a large sweaty man in a rumpled suit. No such considerations for him! It was with some relief that he stepped down onto the platform at Stalybridge and looked around at the Victorian architecture.

'Where are we staying?' John asked, casually, and was not surprised when Sherlock replied with a blank look.

'Didn't get that far in your planning, then?' the doctor quipped, sardonically. Fortunately, he had. He took out his phone and accessed Google Maps then said, 'Follow me,' and led the way from the station to a nearby building of similar vintage to the station itself, appropriately named the 'Railway Hotel'.

Entering through the grand, Victorian portico, John approached the check-in desk and smiled, winningly, at the Receptionist.

'Good evening, sir,' she smiled back. 'How can I help you?'

'Good evening, Miss…Dorkins,' he replied, reading her name from her ID badge. 'Dr John Watson. I have two single rooms reserved.'

Miss Dorkins tapped at a key board then reached under the desk and came up with two large metal keys on heavy, clunky key rings, which she placed on the counter top in front of her guest, with another charming smile.

'I see you've left your departure date open,' she commented.

'Yes. We're not sure how long our business will take to complete. I checked with the manager, when I booked. She said it was OK.'

'Oh, yes, sir, it's not a problem. We're not too busy, for the time of year. We do have a wedding party, at the weekend, though.'

'I think we should be sorted by then,' John assured her. 'But, if not, we understand that we may have to move to different rooms.'

'Oh, that's not likely, sir. Most wedding guests want doubles or, at the very least, twins. No, I was just warning you that things might be a bit…lively at the weekend. Y'know, rowdy?'

John just grinned. He was charmed by her lilting Lancashire accent, just tweaked towards RP, like a telephone voice. But, mostly, he was really relishing Sherlock's response to suddenly finding himself in the middle of a traditional Northern bun-fight.

'When you've quite finished flirting, doctor,' Sherlock cut in, reaching over John's shoulder to grab one of the room keys, 'I'd like to go to my room. Where is it?' he demanded of the girl, rather bruskly.

'Top floor, sir, second and third doors to the left,' the girl spluttered, somewhat flustered by Sherlock's abrupt manner.

The stroppy detective strode toward the stair case – in the apparent absence of a passenger lift – and ascended two steps at a time. John turned to the receptionist and winked, conspiratorially.

'Oh, don't mind Mr Grumpy Pants. He's like that with everybody. Comes from being a bona fide genius, I understand.'

Suitably mollified, the young lady smiled again and, as John picked up his case, she leaned forward and said,

'If you go round to the right, there, you'll find the lift. You're on the sixth floor!'

John gave a bark of triumphant laughter and strode off to the elevator.

ooOoo

When Sherlock eventually arrived at the door to his room, he was surprised to find John's door open and the man himself standing in the doorway, looking smug. He deduced, obviously, that the other man had used an alternative means of transport to reach the top floor before him so did not give his friend the satisfaction of asking him how he had achieved this feat.

Instead, he unlocked his own door and dropped his bag on the floor to prop it open then stepped inside the room and took Arthur's switched off phone from his pocket. Turning to face his friend, who had followed him over the threshold, he said,

'I'm going to turn this on and ring one of his sisters.'

John nodded, to show that he understood and approved of the plan.

Sherlock took that as the signal to proceed and pressed the Power button then sat on the bottom of the bed, to wait for the mobile to power up. No sooner had the phone become live than a flurry of text alerts pinged, one after another. Sherlock opened the most recent, read it and showed it to John.

_Arthur, you dick! Where the fuck are you? What's with the Sarah Bernhardt impression?_

This was from Rosie, the older of the two siblings.

The text before that one, also from Rosie, read,

_OK, I give in, you win the 'not speaking' contest! Answer your phone, Fuckface!_

Sherlock flicked through a dozen texts, all of the same ilk but each one more demanding than the one sent before. If any of Arthur's family were involved in his disappearance, this sister was not one of them.

There were two missed calls from Josie, the younger sister, and she had left a voice mail. Sherlock accessed it.

'Arthur, when you get this message, please ring me. Rosie is going to burst a blood vessel if you don't! You promised to keep us in the loop so, come on, bro, don't ditch on us now! Love you lots.'

Ah, so he had been right about the 'LOL'. Sherlock congratulated himself on his knowledge of social media speak.

'You better do as she says,' John prompted him, cutting across his little reverie.

Sherlock gave a small shrug and dialed Josie's number.

She answered almost immediately, as though she had been holding her phone in her hand.

'Arthur! At last! I was beginning to think you'd run off to join the Foreign Leagion!'

'I'm not Arthur,' Sherlock replied.

There was a short pause, as Josie processed the words spoken by the strange, cultured, baritone voice, then he heard,

'Oh, hello, whoever you are! No wonder my brother hasn't been in touch. He's lost his phone! Thank you so much for finding it for him…'

'No, Miss Brocklehurst, it's not his phone that is lost,' Sherlock interrupted her.

'What? Not his phone that's lost? What do you mean? Who are you?' She sounded alarmed, now.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes. Arthur is…engaged to my brother, Mycroft,' he explained, speaking slowly and distinctly.

'Oh! Right! Er…hello!' she stammered. 'Sorry, this conversation is a bit surreal. So you are Arthur's brother-in-law-to-be, yes?'

'Yes, I suppose I am,' Sherlock confirmed.

'So Arthur hasn't lost his phone because you have it, yes?'

'Miss Brocklehurst, it's a bit more complicated than that. May I come and see you?'

'Well, of course! But I'm in Stalybridge. Where are you?'

'I am also in Stalybridge. I came here to speak to you and your sister, both at the same time, if possible.'

'Oh, well, of course. I'll call her and ask her to come here too. Do you know where I live?'

'I do not,' he replied. 'Could you tell me your address?'

'Do you have a pen?'

'I'll remember it,' he assured her.

Somewhat dubiously, she told him her address then asked,

'What time should I expect you?'

'We could be there in thirty minutes, unless my companion needs to refuel, beforehand,' he said, aiming the last part of the statement at John, with the quirk of an eyebrow.

'Refuel? Oh, eat! I see. Well, I'd offer to feed you both but I'm afraid I wasn't expecting visitors. Though, I could nip to the chippie!'

'No, please, don't go to any trouble. I'm reliably informed that he has no need of sustenance at the moment. We will be with you in the next half hour.'

He said goodbye and closed the call, then stood up, took one step toward the doorway and picked up his valise, releasing the door which began to swing shut. John put out a hand to stop it and said,

'So, when are we leaving?'

'Twenty minutes. It will only take ten to get to Josie's flat. I'll knock on your door when it's time to go.'

John was looking at him with that 'how could you possibly know that' look on his face.

'I memorised the map of the town on the way here,' he declared, as though it should have been obvious.

John's expression changed to the 'when exactly did you do that' look.

'I looked up Stalybridge on Google Maps, in the cab on the way to Euston, and took myself on a guided tour, in my Mind Palace, on the train to Manchester. I timed all the routes from the station to wherever, which is how I know that it will take ten minutes to get from here – or from the station, which is right next door – to Josie's flat.'

Having given this entirely unnecessary (in his opinion) explanation, he put the flat of his hand on John's chest and urged him out of the doorway into the corridor.

'I will knock when it's time to go – in _fifteen_ minutes, now,' he added, pointedly, and let the door swing shut.

ooOoo

Blake had been standing in the foul-smelling room all afternoon, watching Arthur pour out his soul and Knowles have multiple orgasms, at the opportunities the young man's confessions provided for him to spout his pet theories and denounce the Devil that was – in this instance – Arthur's sexually abusive boyfriend. Blake had heard more than enough.

He was fairly confident that, unless the 'patient' had a sudden change of heart and reverted to antagonising his 'therapist', he could leave them unattended for as long as it took to grab a breath of fresh air and phone in a progress report to his boss.

He strode though the empty building and out through the now redundant 'Public Entrance', where he paused to light a cigarette then leaned on the wall of the building and fished out his phone. He took a couple of long, satisfying tokes of his cigarette while he waited for the call to be answered. When it was, he unconsciously stood up straight, almost to attention, at the sound of his boss's voice.

'Well, how's it going?' asked the other party.

'He seems to have accepted that his sugar daddy is exploiting him. He's weeping and wailing and begging for redemption but, to be honest, I don't buy it. He's a smart one, this guy. I think he's playing Knowles for the self-obsessed, delusional twat that he is. The minute we let him go, he'll recant the lot and go running back to Popa.'

The other man chuckled at that visual image but sobered up very quickly.

'So you think he's putting on a show?'

'Asolutely.'

'Well, perhaps we need to cut to the chase, bring this stage of the operation to a hasty conclusion?'

'The Boss' considered his options for a moment then came to a decision.

'Show him the tape.'

Blake nodded, even though the man on the phone couldn't see him. Then he almost clicked his heels, as he replied,

'Yes, sir, Colonel Moran.'

ooOoo

**I'm taking a calculated risk, here, that Stalybridge, like nearly every other British town with a Victorian railway station, has a Victorian railway hotel right next door! If not now, I bet it did once!**


	21. Stolen Chapter Twenty

**Warning: this chapter has descriptions of sexual acts and an inference of incest.**

**Chapter Twenty**

Sherlock sat back down on the bed and took out his own phone, dialing Molly's number. It was half past seven in the evening. She would have just finished putting the boys to bed and would probably be giving Violet her bedtime feed. He felt rather mean, intruding on this private time between mother and baby, but he had promised to call and he did not know when he might have another opportunity.

It took a moment or two for his wife to answer the phone but, when she did, she sounded relieved to hear from him.

'Hello, my darling. Thank you for ringing.'

Sherlock lay back on the bed, with the phone to his ear, and closed his eyes, picturing, in his mind's eye, the vision of Molly and Violet, sharing a quiet moment.

'How was the journey?'

'It was mercifully uneventful. John stuffed his face and I studied the lie of the land. We are meeting the sisters in about twenty minutes. I don't think they know where Arthur is. They both seem genuinely concerned about his radio silence.'

'Well, do try not to frighten them still further, my love,' she cautioned.

'That's why I brought John. He's good at these sorts of situations.'

'And where are you staying?'

'At a hotel right next to the railway station,' he advised.

'Does it have a name?'

Sherlock had no idea. He had just followed John here. He looked on the nightstand, to see if there was any hotel stationery in evidence, and found a brochure.

'Ah,' he announced, 'it's called the Railway Hotel. How original.'

Molly smiled to herself, at Sherlock's unique perspective on the world, and Violet smiled back, releasing the suction on the nipple she was currently suckling and letting a dribble of milk trickle across her cheek and into the folds of her neck. This made Molly giggle and Sherlock wrinkled his brow, wondering what was so amusing.

'Violet says hello,' Molly said. 'She's just having supper and then she's off to bed. I wonder if she will bother to wake up tonight, knowing that you are not here to play with?'

They chatted about this and that, until a tap on the door announced to Sherlock that it was time to go. He said a fond farewell and closed the call.

ooOoo

The door to Arthur's prison cell opened and MIB entered, performed his customary visual scan then held the door for the doctor to enter before leaving the room, himself. Knowles was carrying a supper tray. He placed it on the counter, removed the cover, then took a knife and fork and sampled a little of every item on the plate, as Arthur watched from the bed. Knowles then broke the seal on the water bottle and took a sip then returned the bottle to the tray and carried it to the bed.

Arthur took the meal tray from the therapist's hands and balanced it on his knee as he began to eat.

'I'm so glad that you have finally realised that I am, truly, your friend,' Knowles began, as the door re-opened and Blake backed into the room, towing the TV trolley, once again.

Arthur looked up, shrugged, and went back to his supper.

'Now, Arthur, I want you to remember that what I am about to show you is for your own good. I know that you now see the error of your old ways but I wonder whether you fully appreciate the degree to which you have been used and abused by the man you call your fiancé.'

Arthur listened without comment, continuing to consume his meal. Privately, he was intrigued to know what they had in store for him. Not more skin flicks, he hoped. He thought he had made it clear that porn movies had no effect on him whatsoever. But the 'use and abuse' comment was a little unsettling.

Blake had plugged in the TV and set the chair in front of it, as before, then stood by, waiting for Arthur to finish eating. Once the food was gone, Knowles moved the tray back to the counter and invited Arthur to sit in the chair. He slid off the bed and padded, subserviently, over to the seat, dropping down and folding his hands in his lap, adopting a submissive pose.

At a nod from Knowles, Blake switched on the DVD player.

The scene materialised on the screen and Arthur was not sure what he was looking at. This was no commercially produced porn video. The image was black and white, dark and indistinct, badly lit and grainy, like that from a security camera. The perspective gradually became apparent as an overhead shot, looking down onto a bed, on which two bodies were visible. There was no sound track to add context but it was obvious that the two subjects were engaged in sexual congress.

As Arthur peered at the image, he began to recognise familiar details in the scene, though he had never before observed them from this perspective or in black and white. It was the master bedroom, in Mycroft's official residence in Cadogan Square. And one of the subjects in the shot was obviously Mycroft – Arthur was familiar with every aspect of that man's body. The identity of the second subject was difficult to make out, since that person was lying prone on the bed, his face pressed into the mattress, the features obscured, but Arthur knew it was not himself. He knew his own body very well, too.

The initial shock of seeing his partner making love to another man was quickly tempered by the practical acknowledgement that he was not Mycroft's first lover, not by a long chalk. He had no way of knowing the vintage of this film. It was perfectly possible – in fact most probable – that it had been recorded before he and Mycroft even met, let alone became intimate.

Arthur had had other sexual encounters, too. These former partners had been good company, good friends and good lovers but he had never felt for any of them in the same way he did for his fiancé. Therefore, he could not avoid the sharp pang of emotional pain that he felt, watching the man he loved making love, so ardently, to another.

But the shock and hurt at the nature of the images were quickly replaced by outrage that someone had planted surveillance equipment in Mycroft's bedroom without his knowledge and taped him in his most unguarded moments, then passed that tape on to a third party. How could this be? And how did these people get their hands on it? Who were they and why were they doing this?

He suddenly realised that he was betraying his true feelings for the man he had been robustly denouncing for the past several hours. This video had caught him off guard. He was tired and stressed and he was vulnerable. His captors had taken advantage of this. They had tricked him. They had out-witted him. He made an attempt to retrieve the situation.

'Why should I care who he's fucking? Rather them than me!' but he already knew, from the self-satisfied smirk on Blake's face, that he had seen through the act. Knowles, however, was still none the wiser. He was so engrossed in the action on the screen, licking his lips, lasciviously, that he was oblivious to everything else.

For his part, as all the conflicting emotions vied for dominance within him, Arthur now felt acutely uncomfortable observing his partner making love to another man. It felt voyeuristic, even more so in the knowledge that Mycroft was unaware that this intimate act had been recorded for posterity

'Are you sure you don't care who he fucks?' Blake asked, out of the blue, taking Arthur by surprise. He had never been involved with the 'talking' bits before.

'Couldn't give a monkey's,' Arthur replied, flippantly.

'OK. Just as well really.'

As Blake made this comment, the love-making moved on to a new phase and, as Mycroft slipped to the right, the other man rolled over onto his back and reached out to pull Mycroft's head towards his own for a passionate kiss and Arthur gasped as he recognised the sexual partner.

It was Andrew Lewis, Mycroft's valet-butler.

This put a whole different conplection on the matter. It might be an old video, shot years before, but Andrew was still in Mycroft's life. Arthur suddenly felt like the second husband, in a polygamous relationship. And it showed. Even Knowles noticed.

'Oh, Arthur, you poor boy. I did warn you, didn't I? This man has betrayed your trust and exploited your vulnerability. And, believe me, there is worse to come.'

Arthur could not, at that precise moment, imagine anything worse than discovering that his future husband had had a sexual relationship with one of his employees – whom he still saw every day of his life, who was his close confident, his man-servant. A vicious thought insinuated itself into his consciousness, before he could block it, like a viper pouring poison into his ear. What if that relationship was still on-going?

Whilst Arthur had been reeling from the revelation of the identity of Mycroft's on-screen lover, the image on the screen had changed, abruptly. The two bodies had vanished from the bed, which was now made up, neatly, with a duvet and pillow set in a pattern which Arthur knew to be still in use, at the Knightsbridge apartment.

Arthur watched, mesmerised, unable to look away as shadows stretched out across the bed, closely followed by their corporeal counterparts – Mycroft, again, and another man, who was not Andrew. They were both naked. Mycroft fell onto the bed and the other man threw himself next to him and they proceeded to engage in mutual fellatio, in the classic '69' position.

Arthur was shocked to his core. Not just because of the utter abandon with which his lover was giving himself to this sex act – which he had never once suggested to Arthur nor appeared remotely interested when Arthur hinted at it – but, once again, it was the identity of the partner that cut him to the quick. The man was Charles Meadows, the Estate manager. Arthur's head spun. Was Mycroft's world entirely populated by his ex-lovers? Assuming, of course, that they were 'ex'.

'Still not bothered?' Blake taunted, crossing the room to stand over Arthur, staring down at him with a mocking smile.

There was no point in lying. Arthur knew the game was up. His heart was well and truly on his sleeve, exposed for all to see.

'Ok, you've made your point. You can turn it off now,' he hissed, through gritted teeth, feeling perilously close to breaking down under the impact of these earth-shattering revelations.

'No, not quite yet,' Blake insisted. 'There is just one more film you need to see. If you think those two were bad, wait until you see this one!'

'It's not necessary, I get it!' Arthur retorted. 'My partner has a harem of former lovers in his employ – me included, I suppose, although I was an employee first and then a lover so maybe that makes me special but, somehow, it doesn't feel much like that. Don't waste my time or yours showing me more of the same. You've won. Game, set and match. Mycroft and I are history.'

Blake put a restraining hand on Arthur's shoulder and fixed him with a steel-hard glare.

'You need to see this,' he insisted and his expression confirmed that this was not optional.

This time, it was Blake who nodded and Knowles who pressed the 'Play' button.

The scene was Mycroft's bedroom, once again, and Arthur noted that the bedding was not a set he recognised. This was an older film, then, so why should Mycroft's choice of sexual partner be of any concern to him? Unless it was Anthea, he thought, absurdly. Now, that would be a turn up for the books. Arthur almost laughed at the very idea of Mycroft shagging a woman.

But, as the dark, grainy image resolved itself into two bodies, lying diagonally across the bed, Arthur was stupefied. The smaller of the two figures - a good thirty centimetres shorter than the man, who was unequivocally Mycroft - was slim, slight, and willowy, with milky pale skin, and a thick mop of dark, curly hair. As he watched the two bodies entwine, he shook his head in disbelief and felt an icy wave wash over his skin, as all colour drained from his cheeks.

He pushed up off the chair and lurched toward the sink, where he vomited, violently, on top of the stale, stinking puke still festering there from the day before.

'No! No!' he gasped. 'No! Not…not…' He couldn't even say the words. His mind refused to accept what his eyes insisted was true. This could not be, was not possible, no, no. His legs could not support his weight and he buckled at the knees, sinking to the floor, still heaving and rasping, where he lay in a heap, insensate, whilst his guts continued to pump out onto the floor through his lax lips.

ooOoo

Mycroft sat in the leather winged chair, by the empty fire grate in his study, brooding. This was the second night of Arthur's absence and the hollow feeling in his chest was growing ever deeper, broader and more hollow. He rubbed his brow and tried to repress the mental images of Arthur's lifeless eyes that kept insinuating themselves into his imagination.

Molly had tried to persuade him to join her in the Summer Drawing Room. She felt it was unwise for him to be alone. He sort of agreed. At least in company, his autopilot clicked in and he could maintain a controlled demeanour. In isolation, there was no imperative to do that and he could feel his resolve crumbling.

He shook his head, trying to banish the despair that was threatening to over-whelm him.

Then the phone rang. He snatched up the receiver.

'Sir,' came Anthea's calm, business-like tone, 'Interpol have apprehended Marcus Frayne.'

ooOoo


	22. Stolen Chapter Twenty One

**A little swearing and inferred incest but no graphic descriptions.**

**Chapter Twenty One**

'So why d'y'think t' brother's come 'ere?' Rosie asked her sister.

''E just said 'e wanted to talk to us – you and me – together,' Josie replied, standing in the kitchen area, waiting for the kettle to boil, while Rosie stood on the other side of the work top cum breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the sitting room in this bijou, modern flat.

'Maybe 'e's organisin' t' Stag Night and 'e wants to invite us,' Rosie suggested.

''E wouldn't 'ave come all this way just to do that! And, anyway, we're not Stags.'

'OK, t' 'En Night, then.'

'Arthur is not a Hen, Rosie.'

'Ok, maybe 'e's writing t' Best Man's Speech and wants some embarrassin' anecdotes!'

'Rosie! Be serious! He could 'ave asked us that on the phone. No, 'e said something odd. 'E said, 'It's not Arthur's phone that's lost.' What does that mean?'

'That Arthur 'asn't lost 'is phone?'

'Exactly! So, if it's not _the phone_ that's lost, what is?'

Rosie stared at the younger sister then said,

'I'm sorry, luv, y've lost me.'

Then the entry phone buzzed, to announce the arrival of their visitors.

Josie went to the front door and picked up the entry phone receiver.

'Hello?'

'Good evening, Miss Brocklehurst. It's Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. May we come in?'

'Er, yes, certainly,' Josie replied, pressing the button to release the lock, downstairs. 'I'm on the first floor.'

She hung up the phone and turned to her sister.

'They're 'ere! And 'e's brought a doctor!'

Josie opened her front door and listened to the sound of her guests climbing the stairs. When Sherlock appeared on the landing, she stared at him - with his finely sculpted, alabaster features, his unruly curls and his graceful bearing - her mouth half open. He strode toward her and offered his hand.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said, with a charming smile.

Josie took the hand and shook it, still tongue-tied.

John reached past the tall detective and offered his hand, too.

'John Watson. How d'ya do.'

She shook his hand as well then remembered to say,

'I'm Josie. Please come in. My sister Rosie is here, too.'

She turned and preceded them into the flat and John closed the door behind them.

As they entered the sitting room, Sherlock scanned around, taking in all the salient features, including the other sister, standing by the kitchen counter. The two women bore a striking resemblance to each other and to Arthur. They shared the strong jaw and aquiline nose, although the female versions were less chiselled. They all had a similar hair colour, except Josie had added blonde highlights to hers, and where Arthur's was wiry in texture, the girls' hair was smooth and silky.

Slim, elegant Josie was wearing a smart black pencil skirt and a white cotton blouse, which befitted her role of Office Manager. Her hair was scraped back in to a tight bun, softened by a full fringe and wispy side pieces. Rosie was still wearing her Co-op Sales Assistant's tabard, over black leggings, and her hair was pulled into an untidy pony tail. Two pregnancies had left her a little broader in the beam than her younger sister and her accent was more marked – less adulterated. She was also the more forthright of the two.

'So why 'ave you come 'ere, Mr Holmes?' she asked, straight out, stressing the initial 'H' of his name, while Josie was asking them if they would like a cup of tea.

'Perhaps we could all sit down?' John suggested.

'Of course!' Josie exclaimed and ushered them all to the two sofas, set opposite each other, in the centre of the sitting room. They all took their seats and the women looked, expectantly, from John to Sherlock and back again.

'When did you last hear from Arthur?' Sherlock began.

'Sunday,' Josie replied. 'He texted and then I called him and we had a chat. He said he'd been to a barbeque – at your house.'

'And you, Mrs…?' he asked Rosie.

'Jus' call me Rosie, luv. We don't stand on ceremony 'ere.'

'Rosie,' Sherlock obliged.

'I spoke to 'im Sat'd'y. 'E'd been t' zoo wi' kiddies. Why are you askin' us this? Why don't y' just ask 'im?'

'Because, ladies,' John cut in, speaking carefully and gently, 'Arthur has gone missing. He has not been seen or heard of since Monday lunch time and we have good reason to believe that he has been kidnapped.'

Both women gasped and Josie put a hand to her mouth, in shock.

'Kidnapped? Our Arthur? Whatever for?' Rosie exclaimed.

'We were hoping you might be able to tell us that,' Sherlock replied.

'What?!' both women shrieked in unison.

'What he means,' John interceded again, 'is that we believe that something happened when Arthur came to visit you and your parents, two weeks ago, and that his disappearance is somehow linked to that. So, we wondered if you could tell us what happened that caused Arthur to come back to London a day early and prompted him to text you, every day since, asking if everything is alright.'

The two sisters exchanged a furtive look then Josie said,

'Our dad went ape shit when Arthur told him he was gay and that he was marrying a man. And then he kicked Arthur out, disowned him, told him he was not his son any more.'

'Our mum,' said Rosie, taking up the narrative, 'were righ' upset 'cos she dunt care if Arthur is gay, straight or curly, 'e's still our Arthur. And Arthur were worri'd that our dad would tek it out on 'er, which is why 'e kept textin'.'

This was no more than Sherlock had already surmised, based on the evidence and on the little information Molly had gleaned from her conversation with Arthur, at the family barbeque. It still didn't explain why Arthur had been snatched.

'What makes you think Arthur was kidnapped?' Josie asked, looking at John.

John looked to Sherlock but he was lost in thought so he took the initiative and explained about the CCTV footage of the snatch, the clothes dumped in the Clothing Bank and the phone dumped at the railway station.

'It was a professional job,' he explained. 'The man who masterminded it is a professional kidnapper. He does it for a living.'

'What? How can someone kidnap people for a living?' Rosie spluttered.

'Have you heard the term Extraordinary Rendition?' John asked.

Josie nodded but Rosie looked blank.

'Well, it's a posh name for kidnapping,' John went on. 'The CIA have made a sort of hobby of doing it to terror suspects. The man who snatched Arthur was trained by MI5 but now he's gone freelance. He works for whoever will pay him. And he's not cheap. Five figures, minimum.'

'Well, I don't know why anyone would want t' kidnap our Arthur and I certainly don't know anybody 'oo could afford to pay someone to do it!' Rosie stated, categorically. 'Certainly not our dad! I mean, 'e is a grumpy ol' bastard an' 'omophobic as fuck bu' 'e would never even think o' doin' such a thing to 'is own son! An' where would 'e ge' tha' kind o' money?'

'Perhaps we could talk to your dad?' John suggested.

'If you think it would help, though I can't imagine what he could possibly know about anything,' Josie replied.

'Yes, good idea,' Sherlock exclaimed, back in the room again, springing up from the sofa, causing the women to start.

'What is?' John asked.

'Speaking to the father,' Sherlock replied, briskly. 'Take us there!' he demanded of the sisters.

'Please,' added John.

As they left the flat and made their way down the stairs to the ground floor, and off along the street, Sherlock charging ahead and the other three following on behind, Rosie said to John,

'I can see why 'e needs a doctor wi' 'im at all times. Is 'e the one that Arthur were nursin', when 'e met his bloke?'

John nodded and grimaced.

'And are you 'is minder?'

'Sort of,' John confirmed.

'Well, mate, you certainly earn your fee!'

'Well, I would if I got one,' John answered with a chuckle.

'So 'is brother dunt pay ya t' mind 'im?'

'He did offer, once, but I turned it down. No. I do it for love,' John replied.

'Oh! So you an' 'im, you're…'

'No!' John exclaimed, realising his error of judgement in employing that particular colloquialism. 'No, we are both happily married – to two other people…both women,' he explained, somewhat clumsily.

'Oh, yeah! I remember, now. That's why Arthur di'n't come 'ome for Christmas, 'cos he were going t' a wedding. So, some woman actually married 'im, your mate?'

'Yep! And she loves him to bits.'

'She'd need to,' Rosie observed, with a bit of a snort.

'And they have three absolutely beautiful children, which _he_ loves to bits,' John added, still trying to promote Sherlock into Rosie's good books.

'Ok, well, 'e can't be all bad if 'e loves his kiddies,' she conceded.

'He's not bad at all, just a bit odd. But I'm used to him. And Arthur really likes him, so that must mean something.'

'Arthur likes most people, bu' only if they're decent. So, I'll give y' that,' Rosie concluded.

Josie had caught up with Sherlock and matched him, if not stride for stride then at least in pace, as they walked the short distance to the Brocklehurst family home.

'I'll tell you something, Mr Holmes…' she began.

'Sherlock. Please, call me Sherlock. Mr Holmes is my brother.'

'OK, Sherlock, I'll tell _you_ something, if anyone around here is behind Arthur's disappearance, I bet it's that dick head, Mick Robinson.'

'Really?' Sherlock asked. 'Who he?'

Josie proceeded to explain who Mick Robinson was and how he had impacted upon her father. When she mentioned that he was a White Supremacist, Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to face her.

'What did you say?'

'Sorry, what? Which bit?'

'The last bit, the very last bit you said. Say it again, exactly as you said it before,' he insisted, resisting the urge to grab her by the shoulders, an internalised 'John' voice telling him that that would be 'a bit not good'.

'I said that he is a White Supremacist, who came here about two years ago and suddenly became my dad's best friend,' she repeated, feeling rather alarmed by Sherlock's intensity.

'Two years ago? Are you sure?'

'Well, more or less.'

'No, be precise. When exactly did he come here?'

Josie turned to Rosie and John, who had caught up and stopped next to them.

'When did he come here, Rosie?' she asked.

'Erm…' Rosie considered, then said, 'It were a year las' January, if y' remember. 'E jus' popped up, out o' nowhere an' that were it.'

Sherlock turned away, deep in thought again, then declared,

'That can't be a coincidence. The Universe is rarely so lazy.'

'What?' John asked, on behalf of them all.

'That was about the time that Arthur came to work at the house, just after the New Year, remember?'

John did remember. He could hardly forget.

'But you said this was nothing to do with Mycroft, that it was all to do with Arthur,' John reminded his friend.

'Maybe it's to do with both,' he replied and set off walking again.

ooOoo

Arthur lay on the floor, eyes open but unseeing, and unresponsive to Blake's attempts to rouse him.

'Fuck!' the MIB snapped, squatting beside the stricken man. 'That wasn't supposed to happen!'

He turned to Dr Knowles.

'Come on, you're a shrink, do something!'

'I'm not that sort of shrink!' Knowles squawked, highly reminiscent of his plea regarding the thermometer.

'So, exactly what sort of shrink are you?'

'I'm a Reparation Therapist! I cure people of being gay. I don't know anything about…this!' he protested, gesturing at the man on the floor.

Blake curled his lip in disgust at the other man.

'Arthur? Can you hear me?' he repeated, shaking Arthur's shoulder but getting no response whatsoever. He jumped to his feet and said to Knowles,

'Help me get him back on the bed. Then I need to call the boss, tell him what's happened.'

Between the two of them, with Blake taking the bulk of Arthur's weight, they lifted him from the floor and placed him back on the bed, in the recovery position, just in case he hadn't done with vomiting. Blake covered him with the blanket and said,

'Just watch him,' and left the room, with Knowles gazing nervously at the recumbent man as though he were about to explode.

Jogging along the deserted corridor to the stairs, Blake dialled Moran's number.

'Yes? How did it go?''

'Not according to plan, sir. He took it hard.'

'That's what we intended,' Moran replied.

'We wanted to turn him, sir, yes. But, at the moment, he appears to be catatonic.'

'You mean he's in shock?'

'More than shock, sir. He is unresponsive. Windows open but nobody home.'

'Damn,' Moran muttered. 'He won't be much use to us like that, will he? What does the doctor think?'

'Sir, that man is a graduate of the Mickey Mouse School of Medicine. He is no more a qualified doctor than you or I.'

Moran thought for a while then said,

'OK, look. Clean him up, keep him warm, make sure he's hydrated. I'm on my way.'

ooOoo

Arthur's mind was in turmoil. He refused to believe what he had seen in the videos. It went against everything he thought he knew about his partner and their relationship. Mycroft was not like that. He was refined and cultured. He was passionate but not dissolute. He was caring and considerate. He was respectful and appreciative of his staff. He loved his children. And he loved Arthur.

But Arthur had seen what he had seen, with his own eyes. That was Mycroft's bedroom and it was Mycroft himself. And the other people in the videos – Andrew, Charles and Sherlock… His gut spasmed, again. That was Sherlock – a much younger version but it was definitely him. Surely it wasn't possible to fake those images? And it was those images alone that had sent his mind spinning out of orbit. Trying to reconcile what he knew as truth and what he had witnessed was tearing his psyche to shreds.

A wee small voice, in a remote, rational corner of his mind, was telling him that this was a trick, designed to destabilise him and that he should not give in to it. But another voice was screaming that Mycroft was duplicitous, manipulative, sly and conniving, a sexual predator who had perverted the laws of common decency and corrupted all those around him – including his own little brother, for whom he was legally responsible. And that was the only voice Arthur could hear.

And, suddenly, he saw a different motive behind Mycroft's decision to father his own children and that thought tipped him over the edge into utter chaos.

ooOoo


	23. Stolen Chapter Twenty Two

**Warning: This chapter contains short but graphic descriptions of torture and references to terrorist activities.**

**Chapter Twenty Two**

Mycroft burst into the Summer Drawing Room, where Molly was watching television, having put all her children to bed. She jumped to her feet.

'What's happened?' she gasped, fearing the worst.

'The kidnapper has been apprehended in Bruges. I must go there.'

'Must you go?' Molly asked, wringing her hands with concern. She knew how fragile Mycroft was, at the moment.

'Yes, I must. We could extradite him but it would take too long. So, we must question him there.'

'No, I meant does it have to be you? Can't someone else do it?'

Mycroft took both her hands in his, to stop the wringing.

'No, Molly, dear,' he said, almost apologetically, 'I have to do it.'

She looked into his eyes and saw, beyond the softened features, the Iceman looking back.

He leaned forward and kissed her, gently, on the cheek.

'Please, explain to the children that Daddy had to go away but will be back as soon as possible.'

'I'll tell them,' she promised. 'You take good care of yourself, Mycroft.'

He gave a tight smile and left the room.

ooOoo

When Sherlock and his entourage arrived at the home of Mr and Mrs Brocklehurst, Rosie automatically led the party round to the back of the house and announced herself by calling out, as she entered the building through the kitchen door.

'Mum, we're home!'

The four visitors stepped into the small utilitarian room and stood around the central table. Sherlock's hair almost brushed the low ceiling. When the girls' mother appeared through the door to the sitting room, her welcoming smile turned to a one of surprise, as she took in the two strange men.

''Ello, luvies! This is a nice surprise,' she greeted her daughters. 'Are you going to introduce me to your little friends?' she added, as though they were still five years old.

'This is Sherlock Holmes, Mum,' said Josie. ''E's the brother of Arthur's chap. And this is his friend, Dr Watson.'

At the title 'Dr', Mrs Brocklehurst gave John a deferential look but he offered his hand, with a winning smile, and said,

'John. Please, call me John.'

She shook his hand and then looked surreptitiously at Sherlock, who was busy scanning the room, taking in every detail and extrapolating information about the characters and depositions of the people who lived here. He felt he knew them, already.

'They're here about Arthur,' Josie explained.

The woman's brow wrinkled, momentarily, evidence of a mother's pain, but she was a little confused.

'Arthur i'nt 'ere, love, y'know 'e i'nt.'

Rosie moved forward and took her mother's hand.

'Arthur's gone missin', Mum. John and Sherlock need to talk to Dad about it.'

'Gone missin'? What d'y'mean?'

'Ey-up, oo's this?' a man's voice drew all their eyes back to the sitting room doorway and Arthur Senior stepped into the crowded kitchen. He swept his gaze around the assembled faces and settled on Sherlock.

'Oo 'r'you?'

The detective drew himself up to his full height, clasped his hands behind his back and looked down his aristocratic nose at the other man.

'My name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a friend of your son, Arthur,' he declared, in clipped tones.

'I don't 'ave a son. So you're wastin' your time…'Ang on a minute! Are you that Wally Woofter 'e's bin shacked up wi'?'

'I think you may be referring to my brother,' Sherlock replied, the corners of his mouth twitching at the application of such an epithet to his illustrious sibling.

'Well, like I said, I don't 'ave a son so…'

'Arthur is missing, Mr Brocklehurst,' John interrupted. 'We think he's been kidnapped. We're trying to find him.'

'An' oo 'r'you?'

'I'm Captain John Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers,' John replied, playing the military card, guessing correctly that this would get the man's attention and elicit some respect.

'Oh, Capt. Watson, I'm very pleased to meet you,' Arthur Senior declared, offering his hand for John to shake. 'But I don't know how I can help you. I don't know where Arthur is.'

'Oh, Dad...' Mrs Brocklehurst keened, calling everyone's attention to her distress at this terrible news regarding her son.

'Come 'n' sit down, Mum,' Rosie insisted and, with a protective arm around her mother's waist, she led her back to the sitting room. Her husband, remembering his manners at last, invited his other guests to follow, though he gave Sherlock a leary look as he passed, through the doorway.

Once in the other room, the three women took up the sofa, with Mrs Brocklehurst in the middle, being comforted by both her daughters. Sherlock walked over to the front window and stood looking out at the darkened garden and the street, illuminated by the bluish light of a nearby lamp-post. John sat in one arm chair and Mr Brocklehurst in the other.

'Where do you think Arthur is?' Sherlock asked, abruptly, turning to face the room.

'I thought 'e were down in London – or wherever it is 'e lives, now'.

'No, that's not what I asked,' Sherlock replied.

All eyes turned to him. John looked as though he was about to intercede but Sherlock held up a hand, and he sat back in his chair.

'You asked me where I thought Arthur was an' I t…'

'No, Mr Brocklehurst, I didn't ask you where you _thought_ he _was._ I asked you where you _think_ he _is_.'

Sherlock walked around the perimeter of the room, his hands still clasped behind his back, but keeping his eyes on Arthur Sr.

'Where do you think he is now?'

''Ow should I know where 'e is?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'No, you _don't_ know where he is but you _think_ you do,' Sherlock stated, baldly.

'Now, look 'ere!' Mr B exclaimed, making to rise from his seat but, in two strides, Sherlock was standing over him, forcing him to sit back, again, and look up, in order maintain eye contact with the tall man.

'When John told you that we thought Arthur had been kidnapped, you smiled.'

'I did not!' the other man exclaimed, indignantly. His daughters and wife glared at Sherlock, defensively.

'Oh, not a proper smile, not a big toothy grin, but the corners of your mouth went up – just a tad. In Behavioural Psychology, that's called a micro-gesture, the tiny, unintentional movements that we make that give away what we are really thinking, regardless of what might be coming out of our mouths, at the time. It's what Forensic Psychologists look for, when the police hold press conferences for the families of missing children, and so forth, especially if they think that the family members might be implicated.'

'Sherlock…' John murmured but the hand came up again and John shut up.

'Are you tellin' me y' think I kidnapped my own son?' the father spluttered.

'No,' he replied, 'I'm not. I don't think you actually understood the conditions of the deal you were making.'

'Dad?' Josie said, in a doubtful tone.

'Don't listen to 'im. Jose! 'E's talking rubbish!'

'What did he tell you they would do with Arthur?' Sherlock asked, almost casually, though he still stood over the other man, intimidatingly.

'What did 'e tell me? What the 'ell are y' on about?'

Sherlock's mobile phone chimed in his pocket and he held up a finger, to put the conversation on 'pause', took out his phone, opened the text, read it, nodded, then opened his email ap, which immediately pinged to signal the arrival of mail. He opened this and skim-read it, nodding as he did so.

Everyone else in the room looked on, mesmerised.

At last, Sherlock spoke again.

'Your good friend, Mick Robinson,' he declared, turning to look at Arthur Sr once more, 'what do you know about him?'

'What do y' mean?' 'E's a mate. End of.' Mr B was not impressed by the detective's interrogation techniques.

'No, he is not, Mr Brocklehurst. He's no mate of yours. Look.'

Sherlock turned the phone to show the screen to the seated man. Arthur's dad squinted at it for several seconds then shook his head, in confusion.

'That's…that's not…'

'Oh, yes, I'm afraid it is.'

Sherlock handed the phone to John, so he could read the file attachment that the email had delivered. It was an MI5 file and the picture at the top was of a tall, well-built man, standing to attention, wearing some sort of paramilitary uniform. The name underneath the photograph had been redacted but the information pertaining to the person had not. John read it, quickly, then said,

'Oh. My. God.'

'What is that?' Arthur Brocklehurst stammered. 'What does it mean?'

'On the way over here, Mr Brocklehurst, I texted a friend of mine and asked her to run a check on your Mick Robinson, or whatever his real name is,' Sherlock explained, 'and this is what she discovered.

Your new best friend is a member of a Far Right paramilitary organisation, known as Combat 18, which has affiliations with the BNP and the NSM. It's a neo-Nazi organisation whose aim is to destabilise democratically elected Governments whom they believe to be too liberal.

Over the years, its members have carried out a number of terrorist attacks, in the United Kingdom, on immigrant and gay communities, their intension being to start a race war, in British towns and cities, so that the general population will vote for those political parties which advocate tighter immigration controls and homophobic legislation.

You have been duped, Mr Brocklehurst, into handing your son over to enemies of the State who intend to use him as a means to bring down the Government!

I don't know how, not precisely. But they targeted Arthur the moment he came to work at the house. They sent their agent here to insinuate himself into the family's social circle, to gather information. Robinson would have quickly identified the father's homophobic tendencies, which he would have flagged up as a possible means to an end. They've been playing the long game, these people, biding their time until an opportunity presented itself to strike. Arthur's 'coming out' mission was the catalyst that set the plan in motion.'

'This really is about Mycroft, after all.'

All four members of the Brocklehurst family looked shocked to their cores. What Sherlock was describing was beyond belief, so far outside their compass as to be incomprehensible. But Arthur Sr was even more stunned than the women. He sank back in his chair, shaking his head and opening his hands in a gesture of utter desperation.

Josie reached out for the phone and John gave it to her. She read the contents of the file then passed it to her sister. Their mother, who was sobbing quietly, showed no desire to read the file herself.

'Dad,' Josie said, breaking the tense silence, 'what have you done?'

'I didn't know, Josie, honestly, I didn't know!'

'Just tell us what you did, Dad,' Josie shrieked, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that she would brook no refusal.

''E sed they could cure 'im. 'E brought a doctor to see me oo sed 'e could cure 'im o' bein' gay..!'

'What sort of doctor?' John asked, his body stiffening.

''E were some sort o' therapist, 'e said,' whined the other man, plaintively. 'Er, sommat beginnin' wi'…er…Apparition? Summat like tha'?' he gabbled

'A Reparation Therapist?' John spat.

'Yes! Yes! Tha' were it!'

'Oh, good god, man!' Dr Watson exclaimed, jumping to his feet. 'Those people are not proper doctors!'

John, beyond furious, began pacing back and forth in front of the older man.

'They buy their qualifications off the Internet! And they use a combination of pseudo-science and religious mumbo-jumbo to exploit vulnerable people who are either struggling to come to terms with their sexuality or who are being pressurised by their families to deny it!'

He stopped and leaned over Arthur's father, giving him the full force of Capt Watson's ire.

'These people use physical abuse and torture in order to persuade their subjects to convert to heterosexuality. They beat them and poison them, starve them, and deprive them of all physical comforts.'

'John,' Sherlock, for once, was the voice of caution.

'They strip them naked and spray them with high pressure hoses!'

'John!' Sherlock said again, more insistently.

But Dr Watson was in full rant mode and nowhere near finished.

'They attach electrodes to their bollocks and plug them into the mains…'

_'STOP!_' Rosie screamed, just as Sherlock grabbed his friend by the shoulders and spun him round to fix him with a warning glare.

'Enough, John,' he said, firmly, 'I think they get the message.'

'Where is he, Dad?' Josie demanded, though trembling lips, choking back her tears.

'I don't know!' her father wailed. 'They didn't tell me!'

ooOoo


	24. Stolen Chapter Twenty Three

**I have added a short paragraph to Sherlock's deduction in the previous chapter because I felt it needed a bit more exposition. So, please pop back and read it!**

**No triggers in this chapter.**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

Sherlock sat at the table in the Brocklehurst's kitchen, while John prepared a pot of tea for the family, who were still in shock.

'Well, it's no surprise that Robinson has dropped off the radar. Once Arthur was taken, it was Mission Accomplished. He's probably miles away by now,' John observed. Arthur Sr had confirmed that his BFF had been nowhere to be seen since the weekend.

'No, he's still part of the team. He'll be wherever Arthur is. But, you're right. He won't be seen back here again. However, one thing is certain. The longer Arthur is in their hands, the more in danger he becomes. We must find him and get him away from them, as quickly as possible.'

'But he could be anywhere! He probably isn't even up here. They more than likely have him somewhere near London.'

'No, I don't think so,' Sherlock replied, that characteristic crinkle appearing between his eye brows. 'This whole thing has a distinctly _regional_ feel to it. All this time, while Robinson has been here, he hasn't just been schmoozing Arthur's dad and indulging in a spot of casual shit stirring amongst the ethnic minorities. No, he's been doing a recce of the local area. He will have identified a suitable location in which to hold a hostage. We just have to look around, from his perspective, and see what leaps out.'

'So what are we looking for?'

'Well, they would want somewhere secluded, out of the way. It would need to be secure - they wouldn't want the hostage escaping and Arthur's a fit man...'

'And a soldier, so escape would be an imperative.'

'Quite. So where, around here, would fit those criteria?'

'Well, I don't know, do I!' John huffed. 'We need to get a map.'

'I did, remember, on the way here?'

'Oh yes, Einstein, sorry, I forgot. So what have you come up with?'

Sherlock was already scanning the map of Stalybridge and its environs, pinned to the wall of the Incident Room in his Mind Palace, looking for likely places one might hold an abductee, so he did not respond.

Josie came through, to check on the progress of the tea order.

'How's your mum?' John enquired, solicitously.

'She's 'aving a lie down. Rosie's with 'er. And Dad, too, but she won't speak to 'im. I don't know if any of us will, ever again.'

John gave a little shrug. He did feel a bit sorry for the guy. He had been chewed up and spat out by people who were experts at that sort of thing.

Josie looked at Sherlock but he was away with the fairies and didn't even glance in her direction.

'Don't mind him,' John advised. 'He does that.'

'What is 'e doing, exactly?' Josie asked, fascinated by this eccentric genius.

'He has a place in his head. He calls it a Mind Palace. It's where he goes when he needs to think or work something out.'

'Can 'e 'ear us, talking about 'im?'

'Oh, yes, I think so. But unless we say something interesting, he'll just filter us out.'

'So what's 'e working out, in 'is Mind Castle?'

'_Palace_. His Mind _Palace_,' John corrected. 'He's scouring the local landscape looking for somewhere suitable to hold someone captive.'

'God, that could be anywhere,' she exclaimed. 'I mean, look at these blokes who kidnap girls and women and keep 'em in their cellars, as sex slaves, for years!'

'Yes, but Arthur's not a terrified, defenceless young girl. He's a fit and healthy, recently demobbed soldier. You couldn't keep him in a suburban basement for long. No. Sherlock says it needs to be somewhere isolated and very secure.'

'Oh, well, that sounds like the psychiatric 'ospital, out on the old Mottram Road. It's all closed up now, ever since they introduced 'Care in t' Community' - or 'Care_less_ in t' Community', as Arthur calls it. 'E used to volunteer there, when 'e were a kid, at school. That's what give 'im the idea of being a psychiatric nurse, in t' first place. 'E loved it, there. 'E really liked the patients, said they were just normal people going through a bad time...'

Josie suddenly realised that Sherlock was staring straight at her and she stuttered to a halt.

'Yes, that's it. That's perfect,' he said. 'We need to go there.'

ooOoo

The private jet taxied off the runway towards the Freight Building at Ostend-Bruges International Airport and stopped in a deserted area, out of sight of the passenger terminal. As it came to a halt, a sleek black limousine moved forward, out of the shadow of the building and drew up alongside the aeroplane. The plane's passenger door opened and the stairs were lowered. Anthea Smith stepped out of the aircraft, closely followed by Mycroft Holmes.

They made their way across the asphalt to the waiting limousine and were ushered inside by the chauffeur, who then took their luggage from the flight attendant and stowed it in the car boot before hopping back in, behind the wheel, and setting off on the twenty-five mile trip to the city of Bruges.

Once installed in the back seat of the car, Mycroft said to his assistant,

'I'd like you to be First Chair, this evening, my dear. I'll be in the Observation Room and will make suggestions, if needed, but I think he may respond better to a woman's touch. I seem to remember he was something of a Ladies' Man.'

'Yes, sir, I seem to recall that, too,' Anthea replied then they both lapsed into silence and gazed out of their respective side windows at the scenery cloaked in darkness, as the car sped on its way.

ooOoo

'We need some back up, then,' John declared.

'No time,' replied Sherlock, jumping to his feet. 'What we need is a car. Do you have one?' he asked Josie.

'No, but Ro…' she began but John cut across her.

'Sherlock, these people are Combat 18, not the WI,' he insisted.

'So? I told you, John. We need to get Arthur away from them as soon as possible. It would take hours to organise back up, hours that we don't have. We need to go there now. Rosie has a car?' He addressed Josie again

'Her husband doe…'

'Sherlock!' John almost shouted. 'This is a highly disciplined, paramilitary organisation we're talking about, here! They will be combat trained and armed to the teeth and we have precisely one ex-Service hand gun between us. It would be like going against a machine gun with a pea-shooter. We cannot go in there on our own!'

'We have to!' Sherlock almost shouted back, rounding on John in frustration. 'The longer we delay, the more damage done to...' He snapped his mouth shut, dropping his gaze, at the expression on Josie's face.

Josie blinked and tried not to cry. Sherlock raised his eyes, to look at her again.

'Can you tell Rosie we need her car,' he said, quietly, and she nodded and went off to perform that task.

'Sherlock, you mad bastard, have you any idea…'

'WHAT do you think I was doing for three years, John, when you thought I was dead? Do you think I joined a Knitting Circle? Or maybe spent the time on the beach in St Tropez?'

John pursed his lips and stared back at him.

'No,' he spat, at last.

'Then you'd be right. I spent that time going up against the likes of Combat 18, without back-up, and usually without even the advantage of an ex-Service hand gun, and I lived to tell the tale.'

'Yes, and you have the scars to prove it! I know that, Sherlock. I do not doubt your bravery or your skills in unarmed combat and general sneaking around but, back then, you didn't have a choice! You had to risk your life on suicide missions because there was no other option! But. Now. There. Is.'

Sherlock threw back his head, closed his eyes and clenched his fists, as though he was trying hard not to hit somebody – which he was. But, eventually, he exhaled a long breath and looked down at the floor.

'Alright, Mr Health and Bloody Safety, what do you suggest?' he hissed.

'Phone Anthea.'

Sherlock took out his phone and gave it to his friend.

'Here. You phone her,' he growled and sat back down, in a sulk.

John found Anthea's entry in Sherlock's phone address book and speed dialled the number. After two rings, a man answered.

'Good evening, Anthea,' John quipped. 'I do believe your voice has broken since we last spoke.'

'This is Agent Delaney. Who are you?'

'Oh, hello, Agent Delaney. I'm John Watson, erstwhile friend and associate of Sherlock Holmes, which is how come I'm using his phone, but he is here. If you want proof of my identity, he can provide it.'

'Not necessary, sir. Your voice matches on our Voice Register.'

_Voice Register?_ John marvelled. _Whatever next?_

'How can I help you, Dr Watson?'

'We think we know where Arthur is being held.'

'You think you know? So you aren't sure?'

'Sherlock is sure and he's been pretty spot on so far. We need to go in and rescue him but the people whom we believe are holding him are – we believe – Combat 18. So we need back up.'

'How many operatives do you believe are present in this place where you believe Arthur is being held?'

'Haven't got a Scooby, mate, so we need the biggest boy scout brigade that you can muster.'

Where is the location?' Delaney asked, in a business-like tone, despite John's flippant attitude.

John gave the address of the defunct psychiatric hospital as 'somewhere on the old Mottram Road, just outside Stalybridge.'

There was a slight pause, as Agent Delaney tapped that into a pc.

'Would that be St Benedict's Hospital, Mottram Old Road, Stalybridge?'

'Hang on, I'll check.' John could hear the voices of the two sisters approaching, through the sitting room. The moment the first sister put a foot through the door, he said,

'Is that old hospital called St Benedict's?'

'Yeah, St Benny's we use' t' call i'.'

'And is it on Mottram Old Road.'

Both girls nodded their confirmation.

'Yep, that's the place,' John passed on to the agent on the phone.

There was another pause, and more keyboard tapping on the other end of the call, until Delaney said,

'We are scrambling a helicopter assault team from RAF Leeming. Should be on the ground in approximately fifty minutes. Where are you, exactly?'

'We are exactly in the kitchen at Arthur's parents' home, in Stalybridge,' John replied, a bit snittily, as Delany was getting on his nerves.

'Might I suggest you stay there and we will keep you informed on the progress of the operation, via this phone?'

'You might suggest that, Agent Delaney, but I can't guarantee that we will follow your suggestion.'

'Well, sir, as a member of the public, I would…'

'Goodbye, Delaney. Nice chatting,' John said, breezily, and cut the connection.

'Can we go now?' Sherlock asked, testily.

'Sure. Where's the car?' John asked.

ooOoo

On arrival at the building that housed the Bruges branch of Interpol, Mycroft and Anthea were shown to an Interrogation Suite, very like the one in the building in Whitehall, with which they were both very familiar. Not wishing to waste any time, Mycroft requested that they get straight down to business so he was taken to the Observation Room and Anthea to the Operations Room, where she was fitted with a very discrete ear piece, through which she would be able to hear any instructions given to her by Mycroft, during the interrogation of Marcus Frayne.

She was then subjected to an electronic scan and a body search, by an absurdly apologetic WPC, who insisted on asking permission every time she was about to touch another part of Anthea's body.

_What would she do if I said no?_ Anthea wondered, but decided not to test the hypothesis.

Search over, she was shown into the Interrogation Room, where Marcus Frayne was already seated – as she could see, from the monitor outside the room. As she entered the IR, Frayne looked up, smiled and went to rise, as a gesture of chivalry, but was pushed back down onto his chair by the hands of the two guards, who stood one either side of him.

Anthea took her seat, beside an Interpol officer, who would be a witness to the interrogation, and went through the protocol of identifying everyone present – for the benefit of the recording equipment – and marking the beginning of the interview.

'Miss Smith, what a pleasant surprise,' Frayne purred.

'Good evening, Mr Frayne.'

'So, if you are here, Miss Smith, I must assume that the illustrious Mr Holmes is here, also. I am honoured. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Mr Frayne, I suspect you already know the answer to that question so I won't insult you by responding.'

Frayne looked genuinely bewildered.

'I do assure you, Miss Smith, I have no idea why Mr Holmes would be remotely interested in any of my recent exploits. Of course, if you're talking historical, that might be very different kettle of fish.'

'I don't think Monday counts as historical, 'Anthea replied.

'Monday? Oh!' said the professional kidnapper. 'That's interesting.'

He did not elaborate further and Anthea chose not to give him any prompts, so they sat and looked at one another for a couple of minutes.

Eventually, Frayne gave in.

'Alright, I'll play a little ping pong with you. I did fulfil a rather lucrative contract on Monday, yes, but I can't imagine why Mr Holmes would be interested.'

'Really?' Anthea asked.

'Yes, really! I didn't think that the turf war politics of a couple of rival extremist groups was of any interest to the great man, unless members of the general public were inadvertently damaged in the process.'

Anthea paused before answering, to give Mycroft time to absorb that comment and, perhaps, suggest a retort. However, he was surprisingly reticent on the matter.

'Can you outline your mission to me, please, Mr Frayne?' Anthea said, off her own bat.

'On one condition,' he replied.

'Which is?'

'That you give me immunity from prosecution for any of my actions, in relation to this operation, regardless of the eventual outcome.'

Frayne was no fool. He was aware that, if the abductee were to suffer an unfortunate fatality, he could be charged with Conspiracy to Commit Murder, Aiding and Abetting, at the very least. If they had been planning to charge him with the kidnapping itself, he was sure they would have done so, already, since he was sure they must have irrefutable evidence of his culpability in that particular offence.

It was obvious to the former MI5 operative that the 'minor government official' was more interested in who ordered the operation than the person who carried it out. So, by requesting an amnesty, he was indicating his willingness to give a full and frank account of how he was head-hunted for this particular contract and by whom.

Anthea paused once again, waiting for Mycroft to make a decision. He did.

'Agreed,' he said, into Anthea's ear piece.

Agreed,' she repeated.

ooOoo

**I don't know if there is a derelict psychiatric hospital on the Mottram Old Road, just outside Stalybridge but it is entirely plausible that there could be. The Victorians were very fond of building Bedlams - as they were known - in the middle of nowhere and populating them with the unfortunates of their society. They became like little gated communities, with shops and everything. And, as well as the secure wards, for the most distressed patients, the grounds were dotted with little cottages where the more independent inmates lived relatively normal lives. Most of them were closed down, in the 1980's, 90's and 00's and redeveloped as housing estates. And some still lie moth-balled, waiting for the wrecking balls to arrive.**


	25. Stolen Chapter Twenty Four

**Warning: Suicidal ideation, references to terrorist activities.**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

It seemed to take a little time, persuading Rosie's husband, Jim, to relinquish his car to two strange men from 'down South', even though one of them was Arthur's future brother-in-law but, in the end, Rosie said, 'Just hand over t' keys, ya plonker,' and that seemed to do the trick. She cut the mobile phone connection and smiled at her sister.

'You take 'em to my 'ouse, sis. If Jim gets stroppy again, jus' tell 'im there'll be no rumpy-pumpy for a month if 'e dunt co-operate.'

John Watson nearly choked on his tea but Sherlock just smiled, and held the door open for Josie to precede him out into the night air. John hastily knocked back the last of his beverage and followed the other two, leaving Rosie to take two mugs of tea upstairs for herself and her mother. Father would have to come and get his own.

It was only a short, brisk walk to Rosie's house, where she had left her husband baby-sitting their two boys when she got the summons from Josie, earlier in the evening, to come and meet Sherlock and John. On arrival at the modest three bedroom social housing semi, the two men waited on the pavement, next to the car, while Josie went inside for the keys. She re-emerged mere moments later.

Sherlock held out his hand for the keys but she marched straight past, unlocked the vehicle and got into the driving seat.

'Get in, then,' she said, though the open car door.

'You can't come with us, Josie,' John said.

'Try and stop me!' she replied. 'Get in, John. You're wasting time!'

Sherlock opened the front passenger door and slid gracefully into the seat, then adjusted the position to accommodate his long legs. John stood on the pavement, looking concerned.

'Dr Watson, I never 'ad you pegged for a sexist pig,' Josie exclaimed.

'I'm not a sexist pig!' John retorted, indignantly.

'Then ge' in t' bloody car and let's get gone,' Josie snapped.

John huffed but opened the rear door and got in, behind the driver. He barely had time to close the door before Josie took off, burning rubber as she powered down the road.

'This will be very dangerous,' John protested, still stinging from being called sexist and a pig. He tried to make eye contact with Sherlock, in the rear view mirror, looking for a show of solidarity, but his friend seemed to find the whole issue highly amusing. He was grinning like a loon.

'I don't intend to come in wi' ya,' Josie explained. 'But I know t' way there and I also know how to get into t' place wi'out going to t' front door. It's a very popular spot for courting couples, round 'ere, so there are ways and means of gaining access that I could never explain, I can only show ya.'

She drove on in silence, going south on the A6018 then turning left onto Stocks Lane, which then became Mottram Old Road as they left the town street lighting behind and drove, though the dark, up onto the moor. In less than ten minutes, Josie pulled off the road into a little wooded area.

'Welcome to Stalybridge's version of Lovers' Leap, gentlemen,' Josie announced, 'or as we call it Shaggers' Alley.'

John nearly choked again but Sherlock gave a rumbling chuckle.

The young woman pointed to a path that led into the woods.

'Follow that path. It will take you to a hole in t' fence. Once you get through t' fence, it's up to you where you go bu' y' will be able to see t' main building from there. There are a lot o' little cottages dotted around, where t' more independent inmates used t' live. They might be keeping 'im in one o' those, though I doubt it 'cos they're not secure. The main building is very secure – locks on every door. You might need to break a few to ge' in.'

Sherlock turned to their driver and escort, with a look of admiration.

'Thank you for that information and for bringing us here. Now, stay in the car, Josie. A helicopter will be landing somewhere near. If anyone challenges you, tell them you're waiting for me. If they tell you to go home, best do as they say, because they are Special Ops and can act outside the law so you don't want to antagonise them, OK?'

'OK,' she agreed.

The two men went to get out of the vehicle but Josie put a hand on Sherlock's arm. He looked at her, again.

'You take care, both of you, but please get my brother back for me.'

'We'll do our best,' Sherlock replied and jumped from the car, slammed the door and followed John's retreating back into the woods.

ooOoo

Sitting in the darkened Observation Room, Mycroft watched his protégé play cat and mouse with Marcus Frayne. He was full of admiration for Anthea. She was an accomplished operative, both in the field and behind the scenes. He hoped that, one day, she might achieve high office in his department, perhaps even become his replacement when the time came to hand over the keys to the main office.

She was more than capable but he wondered if she had ambition in that direction. He was well aware of the difficulties of maintaining a work-life balance, in this line of work in particular, even for a man. It was harder still for a woman, with the biological clock ticking away, but he knew that he would do everything in his power to ensure that she climbed as high in the service as she wished, even though he would be sorry to lose her as his PA.

His mind was wandering. He pulled himself back to the present. And his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Delaney.

'Sir, we have received intel from your brother's assistant that Alpha Beta may be being held in a mothballed psychiatric hospital, just outside Stalybridge. I don't know what evidence this is based upon but, being aware of your brother's ability to deduce facts from a bare minimum of clues, I have ordered a discrete assault on the compound.'

'Very well, Delaney. I don't need to remind you that utmost caution must be exercised. We do not want any civilian casualties. Therefore, I _do not_ sanction Extreme Prejudice. They will go in quietly and take prisoners. If this turns into a pitched battle, I will hold the commanding officer personally responsible, is that clear?'

'Quite clear, sir. I will pass on your instructions, to the letter.'

'Have we any idea of the size of the opposing force?'

'None, sir, but they will scan with heat sensitive cameras before landing, to try to make an estimation.'

'And, also, is my brother on the ground, there?'

'I did tell them not to go, sir, but I suspect they intend to do so.'

It was nothing less than Mycroft expected but it did mean that he now had three Persons of Importance to worry about, rather than just one.

'Very well. Keep me informed, please.' Mycroft cut the connection and turned his attention back to the interrogation.

Frayne was asking for a deal. That meant he was willing to spill the beans. Good. Because they really could not spare the time for a protracted interview.

They already suspected that Combat 18 were responsible for the snatch, which confirmed a few rumours that had been flying around the Intelligence Services that the group was staging a comeback, having been virtually wiped out by a number of high profile convictions in the mid-00s. But Mycroft needed to know who was behind this revival. Who was calling the shots? And who had the nerve to attack him personally?

'Agreed,' Mycroft said, into the microphone on the table, in front of him.

'Agreed,' Anthea repeated.

ooOoo

Arthur lay on the bed, in the stinking room, curled into the foetal position, hugging his knees. He had no idea how long he had been back in his bed and no memory of how he got there, not that he actually cared a hoot about either of those things. His whole body felt heavy, listless, burdened. His heart actually ached. He had heard the term, heartache. He had even used it a time or two in his life but he had never imagined that it could be a genuine phenomenon. Now he knew it was.

He felt physically sick but was no longer retching. His abdominals ached from all the use they had been put to in that particular pursuit. But his stomach felt empty now, just as did his chest. His aching heart was just a big hollow mass, within his ribcage.

He thought if he could just cry out, scream, shout or even wail, it might dispel some of the pain but he lacked the energy required to perform such a task. The little voice, still telling him that none of this was true and that he should keep the faith – never give up, never give in – seemed to be mocking him now, duping him even further, playing him for a fool. He had never felt so low, so desperate, so used, so abused, so exploited, so corrupted.

He thought he might actually prefer death to this feeling of utter degradation. Yes, complete oblivion seemed a most attractive proposition. If someone had put a gun to his head, he would have welcomed the bullet.

ooOoo

'I was approached, several months ago,' Frayne began, 'by a representative of the paramilitary organisation, Combat 18, and asked to advise on a rendition operation. I told them that I do not consult. If they wanted me to plan and carry out the operation, I would consider it but I did not make plans for others to perform – because they rarely do it satisfactorily and I do so hate sloppy work.

I heard no more from them, directly, but I was aware that there was a fair degree of internecine strife within that particular group, following the termination of the former head man, as the various candidates for the vacant post challenged one another, like a bunch of rutting stags.

One individual seemed to be rising to the top and I was watching his progress with interest when, just last week, I was contacted and asked to plan and execute the rendition. The target, I was told, was a representative of the main rival to the Rising Star and that he was to be held hostage, his safe return being dependant on the rival candidate ceding all claims to power to my client.

I was told where the target might be found. I observed him, planned the operation, told the client what I needed – which he supplied – and I carried out the contract on Monday. I then laid a decoy trail – my final act of the operation - and left the country, so as not to be around when the shit hit the fan…because I thought it might be a bit messy.

And that, Miss Smith, is all I can tell you.' he concluded.

'Ask him to name his client', Mycroft instructed.

'And the name of your client, Mr Frayne?' Anthea enquired.

'I'm sorry, Miss Smith. I have told you the name of the organisation. I'm afraid that's as up close and personal as I'm prepared to go.'

'Explain my interest,' Mycroft said.

'You wondered, earlier, why my superior should be interested in your little escapade,' Anthea remarked. 'I am authorised to tell you that your client misled you as to the significance of your target.'

'Really?' Frayne replied, looking a little disappointed, as though honesty and honour should go hand in hand with terrorism. 'How very uncivilised of him.'

'Your target, Mr Frayne, was not a member of a rival faction. He is a Person of Importance to a high ranking Government official. We believe that he is to be used to try to broker some sort of deal with the British Government. And, as you well know, the British Government does not make deals with hostage takers. We never pay ransoms. So the likelihood is that your target will, eventually, be terminated, once his captors realise his lack of exchange value.'

'Which is why I requested immunity from prosecution,' Frayne reminded her, with an infuriatingly smug smile. 'I have the utmost respect for Mr Holmes but if it becomes known that I do not protect the identity of my clients, no one will employ me and I will lose my livelihood. So, sorry, but no can do.'

'Tell him the whole truth,' Mycroft hissed, though gritted teeth.

'I am authorised to tell you that the high ranking government official in question is Mr Holmes, himself,' Anthea declared.

The smile froze on Marcus Frayne's lips. It was clear to all who saw it that this was news to him and not welcome news, either. He seemed a bit lost for words, at first, but then he recovered.

'Miss Smith, I hope you believe me when I say that I am shocked and appalled by your disclosure. As I just stated, I have the utmost respect for Mr Holmes and would not wish to be the cause of any distress to either him or his Person of Importance.'

He looked around, discomforted for the first time since the interview began. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of what to do next and then he came to a decision.

'The new kid on the block is an audacious man and I have to admit that I do admire that quality in a person, but anyone who would go against Mr Holmes in this manner shows a dangerous degree of recklessness, in my opinion, and I shudder to think what kind of mayhem an extremist organisation run by such a man might wreak in the civilised world.

So, for that reason alone – because I believe unleashing a force of great destructive power on my own community would be foolish in the extreme – I will give you the identity of my client.'

Mycroft sat forward, as though by doing so he might somehow hear the name that Frayne was about to utter all the sooner.

'His name is Colonel Sebastian Moran.'

'That's impossible!' Mycroft barked.

To Anthea's credit, she gave no outward sign of the explosion that had just occurred in her ear.

'Are you absolutely sure, Mr Frayne?'

Frayne looked hurt.

'I am quite sure, Miss Smith.'

'It was our understanding that Colonel Moran was terminated, as part of a dismantling operation, five years ago.'

'He was…erm… severely compromised five years ago but he survived and recovered. And he has been working his way back up the career ladder, moving from one organisation to another along the way, and now he's set his sights on the top spot in Combat 18. So, he's very much alive, I assure you.'

Mycroft sat back in his chair – almost slumped, if truth be told. Moran had been Sherlock's final target, in his three-year-long mission to dismantle Moriarty's international criminal empire. He was so sure that he had eliminated that final cog. But he had clearly made an error.

And now, that error was about to reveal itself to Mycroft's brother, in the most perilous of circumstances. And Mycroft had no idea how the shock of that revelation might compromise his sibling's ability to safeguard himself and those around him. Sherlock was walking, blind, into a minefield.

Mycroft pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Agent Delaney's number, frantically.

ooOoo

**I'm away for three days, folks, but I will be back, bashing the keys, on my return.**


	26. Stolen Chapter Twenty Five

**References to non-consensual drug abuse and implied incest.**

**Chapter Twenty Five**

Sherlock followed John's retreating back down the well-trodden path, through the wood. It had a few twists and turns, around mature trees and large bushes, but it led them, eventually, to the gap in the fence, where they paused to recce the landscape.

As predicted by Josie, they could see the main building of the old hospital,. It nestled in a dip in the land, surrounded by a network of tarmacked and paved, roads and paths – all sprouting weeds, now – that had previously provided access to the various parts of the institution, including the many small cottages that stood, in short rows and little clusters of three or four, dotted about the grounds.

The main building, illuminated by a huge gibbous moon in a cloudless sky, was a solid block of red brick masonry, four storeys high, with a footprint about the size of half a city block – pretty small by today's standards, but quite large for its time. The roof was flat in places, pitched in others and it sported several tall chimneys, some with missing or frost-damaged chimney pots.

The front aspect faced away from their vantage point and was served by a long, straight driveway, flanked by two rows of trees, all the way to the boundary wall and a pair of large, imposing, iron gates.

All the buildings were in darkness but for one cottage – the one closest to the main building – from which light spilled out, onto the overgrown garden, through two ground floor windows. On the cracked and crumbling roadway, in front of the cottage, stood a black Audi Q7, with tinted windows.

'What's the plan?' John asked.

'Turn off your phone.'

'What? I've put it on 'silent'…'

'No, turn it off,' Sherlock replied, taking out his phone and switching it off.

'Is that entirely necessary? No one will be able to contact us, now. How will we know what's going on?'

'We'll be able to see and hear what's going on. If they have scanners – which I strongly suspect they do – our phones will give us away. That would rather spoil the surprise, don't you think?'

Reluctantly, John took out his phone and switched it off.

'Now, what?' he asked.

'We skirt around the perimeter and see if we can discern where they're holding him.'

'What about that cottage?' John asked, indicating the illuminated building.

'It's my guess that the Combat 18 personnel are billeted there. As Josie said, the cottages are not secure. Arthur would be out of there in minutes – unless he was physically compromised, of course, but let's assume he isn't – not entirely, at least.'

'Shouldn't we at least take a look, check out your theory?'

'That would be a waste of valuable time. If we draw a blank in the main building, we'll consider that as a second option.'

'OK, so how do you plan to gain access?'

'Tradesman's' Entrance,' Sherlock replied and set off toward the main hospital building, skirting round to the right, in the opposite direction to the position of the lit cottage, keeping to the edge of the woodland to take advantage of the cover.

ooOoo

'What would you like us to do with him, Mr Holmes?' the Interpol officer asked.

'I would be grateful if you would hang on to him, for a day or two, just until we've rounded up these Combat 18 chaps. It would be most unhelpful if he were to tip them off that we're onto them. It would not be the first time that a source has sold out to both sides.'

'Very well, we will do as you ask. I'm sure you will be able to return the favour, before too long.'

Mycroft nodded, gave a tight smile and shook the other man's hand then turned and climbed into the waiting limo, next to Anthea. As the car moved away from the Interpol building, to retrace its journey back to the airport, Mycroft thought aloud.

'Just because Moran is the mastermind behind this operation does not mean that he is necessarily hands on.'

'No, sir,' Anthea agreed.

'So it is possible that Sherlock will not be confronted by his previous error of judgement.'

'Yes, sir,' she confirmed.

'One can but hope.'

'Indeed, sir.'

Mycroft had not been surprised to learn that Sherlock could not be contacted on the very mobile that Delaney had earmarked as the contact phone. It was typical of his brother that he would choose to block a line of communication. He really was not a team player, except in a team of two, and even then, he had to call the shots.

The closest anyone had come to being an equal partner was…John Watson? No, not even him. It was Molly Hooper. She was the only person who Sherlock had ever really listened to, and changed his ways accordingly. Though Dr Watson did come a close second. And Watson was with him, now. Mycroft hoped that the ex-soldier would, if push came to shove, keep his brother from imploding or pressing the self-destruct button.

Unfortunately, Frayne had not been able to confirm or deny that the derelict hospital was, indeed, where Arthur was being held. He had not been involved in that part of the caper, only the actual snatch. So it remained to be seen whether the current operation was to be a wild goose chase or not. Mycroft looked at his watch. The helicopter assault team should be arriving on the scene right about now.

ooOoo

As Sherlock led the way along the tree line, keeping well in the shadows but heading, inexorably, for the service entrance at the back of the main hospital building, John heard the unmistakable throb of an approaching helicopter.

'Speaking of spoiling the surprise,' he muttered.

'That could work to our advantage,' Sherlock replied, pausing to search the sky for the tell-tale lights of the chopper. A bright star just above the horizon, over to the north-east, was no celestial body, he concluded.

'That could be a very convenient distraction. While they engage with the enemy, we can slip inside and bag the prize.'

He set off again, his increase in pace evidence of a renewed urgency to gain access to the building and locate the hostage. John fell in behind him, approving the plan. As he had pointed out earlier, Sherlock was a consummate professional when it came to sneaking around.

ooOoo

Inside the cottage, Colonel Sebastian Moran sat on a musty old sofa that had been hastily covered with a sleeping bag but still smelt of rat's piss and mould. Mick Robinson and Cameron Blake stood in front of him, at parade rest, with feet apart and hands crossed behind their backs. In the kitchen, two more men were engaged in preparing a meal for the party, on a camping stove fuelled from a large Calor Gas bottle, standing on the Marley-tiled floor. Outside the front door, another man was on guard duty, straining his ears and eyes for any suspicious sights or sounds.

'He had a bad reaction, you say,' Moran prompted.

'Yes, sir,' Blake replied. 'The SFX videos alone, I think, would have freaked him out but, in conjunction with the PCP in the water, it really flipped him over the edge. After we put him back on the bed, he was rambling about betrayal and deception, having a full blown paranoid interlude. I think Knowles might have overdone the dose. The man has no formal medical training, sir, I swear.'

'Damn! Well, the paranoia is fine, so long as he is lucid. When we film his statement, he needs to appear compos mentis, at least, otherwise it will be dismissed out of hand. How long has it been since he drank the water?'

'Nearly two hours, sir.'

'So the effect may have diminished a little?'

'Possibly, sir. He vomited the entire contents of his stomach but I suspect he had already taken quite a hit. Dissolved in the water, it would be absorbed very quickly.'

'Well, let's give him a little longer. I can smell supper. What are we having, hedgehog stew?'

'No, sir, lamb stew. It's a lot more readily available than hedgehog, these days. And boiled potato.'

'What's that noise?' Moran asked, suddenly aware of the sound of a helicopter, passing overhead.

'Go and see what's happening,' he ordered Robinson, who jumped to attention and then dashed off to check out the noise.

Once outside, in the dark, he and the man on guard duty stood on the garden path and watched the helicopter pass by, to the north of the hospital campus, and keep on going in a south-westerly direction.

'What's over there?' asked the guard.

'Wales and Anglesey, eventually.'

'Could be Search and Rescue, then, d'you think?'

'Maybe. Could be a training exercise.'

'Or it could be trouble.'

'Just keep a look out. If it comes back, it might mean we're about to have company,' Robinson instructed, then went back inside.

ooOoo

Knowles was reading his Bible, again, but, mercifully, to himself, sitting in the corridor outside the room where Arthur was being held. He had been told to keep an eye on the 'subject' but the lights inside the room had been disabled and he wanted to read, so he had come out into the corridor and brought the chair with him, to sit in the light.

He was beginning to regret taking on this case. These paramilitary types were a bit scary and he hadn't been paid, yet. He wondered whether he ever would be. He also rather felt that he had been thwarted in his mission. The young man had appeared to convert but then, when the evidence of his lover's infidelity was shown to him, he seemed to regress.

That video of the man with the young boy had really hit home. Knowles wasn't sure why that had been the biggest shock to his subject, because his partner had gone with a much younger person or because the younger person was not another employee, or so he assumed, so he did not fit the usual pattern.

Obviously the PCP which the subject had ingested would have enhanced his reaction. And that was the other thing. Knowles was not in the habit of using perception-altering drugs in his work. He preferred to rely on the power of persuasion and the words of the Lord. Speaking of which, he turned to one of his favourite, most self-affirming passages – Romans 8, Verses 31 -39,

'_What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword?'_

Knowles revelled in the words, lost in his own personal rapture.

ooOoo

When they reached the rear entrance to the main building, John and Sherlock found it was boarded up, the boards nailed securely to the door frame, but, skirting along the rear wall, they found another door that had been forced, long before, which led down some steps into a sort of cellar. Taking out their flashlights, they identified it as a boiler room. And, at the far side, there was another set of steps leading up to an internal door. Sherlock made short work of the lock and they stepped out into a long, straight, corridor.

The floor was thick with dust and detritus, including the skeletons and decaying corpses of several pigeons, who had found their way in but failed to find their way back out again and had perished, weeks, months, even years before. At intervals along the walls of the corridor, there were signs and arrows indicating the direction of a stair well.

As it was clear from the lack of footprints, in the dirt on the floor, that no one had been in this corridor recently, the two men made for the stairs. The door to the stairwell yielded to Sherlock's lock-picking prowess and they climbed up to the next floor.

The internal layout of the hospital consisted of two long corridors, joined at each end by two shorter cross corridors, and lined with rooms on either side. Stair wells at both ends gave access to the other floors, and ancient lifts, half way along each long corridor, would have provided wheelchair and gurney access, when this was a functioning hospital. They weren't much use, right now. Even if they had been working, they would have been far too obvious.

Sherlock and John followed the corridor round to the other side of the building and came to a reception area and the public entrance. Here, they found the first evidence of recent occupation. Leading to and from the front door, were several sets of footprints in the dirt.

The two men followed these foot prints along to the second stair well. The door to this well was not locked and the stair case was illuminated, from above, by light leaking from the internal corridor, two flights up. Cautiously, silently, they began to climb.

ooOoo


	27. Stolen Chapter Twenty Six

**No specific triggers in this chapter but still quite scary, I think.**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

Josie glanced at the luminous face of her watch. She had been waiting in the dark for half an hour but it felt like so much longer. She had seen and heard the helicopter go over but had not seen where it landed and was beginning to wonder whether it really had been THE helicopter at all or just some random one, passing by, when a sharp tap on the car window, right next to her ear, made her jump. She turned her head and looked down the barrel of an assault rifle, pointed straight at her face.

She hadn't even noticed the person holding the assault rifle, which was unsurprising since he was dressed entirely in black, even down to a balaclava mask which covered his head and face, leaving only his eyes and lips visible.

'Get out of the car and keep your hands where I can see them,' he said, in a tone which brooked no denial.

Josie did as she was told, opening the car door and climbing out, with her hands raised above her head, feeling both afraid and rather foolish at the same time. As she stood up, the man grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, pushing her against the side of the car. She gasped in surprise and because the impact knocked the breath out of her. She put her hands on the roof of the car, to break the 'fall' and then saw that there was another man standing on the other side of the car and a third, in front of the bonnet, and they were both aiming assault rifles at her, too.

The first man ran a hand down her back, sides and front, in a business-like manual search pattern, then up and down the inside of her legs, which made her feel violated, even though he did not linger anywhere sensitive.

He then put a hand on her shoulder, to keep her in place, and said,

'Who are you?'

'I'm Josephine Brocklehurst. I'm Arthur's sister.'

'What are you doing here?'

'I'm waiting for Sherlock Holmes.'

'Why are you waiting for Sherlock Holmes?'

'Because he told me to. But, if you want me to go home, I will,' she added, rather hoping he would agree to that option.

'Be quiet!' he barked, so she shut up.

One of the other men was talking into what looked like a Bluetooth headset.

'We have an IC1 female, apprehended near the perimeter fence. Name Josephine Brocklehurst. Says she is waiting for Sherlock Holmes.'

There was a pause, while the man listened to the reply, then he said to her,

'Where is Sherlock Holmes?'

'He went into the hospital grounds. He's gone to rescue my brother.'

The man repeated this and waited again, then said,

'Take her in.'

The man holding her by the shoulder transferred his grip to her arm and began to pull her down Shagger's Alley, towards the hole in the fence.

'Hang on! Why are you taking me in there? Isn't it dangerous?'

'_Shut up!_'' he hissed, giving her a shake, and strode on, dragging her along with him.

Inside the cottage, having just sat down to his supper, Colonel Moran handed the communication headset back to Cameron Blake and rubbed his hands with glee.

'Sherlock Holmes! How excellent! Sherlock Holmes is here! And no doubt his little pet is with him.'

Just then, a quiet alarm sounded and all eyes turned to a laptop, sitting on the kitchen counter. The screen displayed a schematic and, at a specific point in the diagram, a blob was flashing.

'Where is that?' Moran asked.

'It's the East Corridor, second floor, door to the stair well,' Blake informed him.

Moran smiled.

'What a resourceful chap he is - Holmes Junior. Well, this is turning into a proper family reunion,' he chortled then his face became deadly serious, in a mood swing that Moriarty himself would have been proud to own.

'Let them get into the room, then we'll shut them down,' he growled.

Blake relayed his instructions, via the head set, to the men on the ground.

ooOoo

The private jet moved away from the Freight Building at Ostend-Bruges International Airport, taxiing towards the runway, and Mycroft's phone rang.

'Report,' he snapped, on answering.

'Sir, the assault team have recced the target area. Their heat sensitive camera picked up seven individuals inside the grounds. Two of those, we suspect, are your brother and his assistant, approaching the rear of the building. Two were outside one of the outbuildings and three were positioned at the front of the main building. But we have no way of knowing how many are inside the outbuilding, due to heat loss through the roof, or on the lower floors of the main building. Also, sir, they detected two teams of three individuals patrolling the perimeter and one person sitting in a car, on the public highway, outside.'

'Where is the assault team now?'

'They landed one mile south-west of Ground Zero, on the moors, to avoid detection and are heading back towards the target area, now.'

'What is the size of our team?'

'Thirteen personnel, including the commanding officer.'

'Very well. Keep me informed,' Mycroft replied. 'We are about to take off. I'll be back on the ground in London in an hour but, in the meantime, text Miss Smith with any updates.'

Mycroft hung up and rubbed his chin with his thumb, looking pensive.

It was entirely possible that the Combat 18 group outnumbered the assault team. This could easily all go very pear-shaped. But he kept his concerns to himself.

ooOoo

On the second floor landing, John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, as he reached for the door to the corridor from which the light was pouring through the glass panel.

'Wait!' he hissed. 'We don't know what's on the other side of that door.'

'And we won't, not unless we look.'

'Let me look.'

'Why?'

'Because I look more like a paramilitary than you do. I've got the hair and the walk. If there's someone on guard in that corridor, I might be able to trick them into thinking I'm one of the team – long enough to get close, at least.'

Sherlock considered that statement then nodded his agreement. He stood back to let John get through the door.

'Stay out of sight until I give you the go ahead,' John instructed the detective, who nodded but scowled, too.

John took a couple of deep breaths then gave a curt nod, yanked open the door and strode though. As soon as he stepped through the door, he saw a man sitting on a straight-backed chair, about half way down the corridor, with a book in his hand. John marched toward him, every inch a soldier, and the man looked up, then stood up.

'Look here! I've been thinking. I really don't think you need me an… Oh! Who are you?'

'I'm Captain Watson. Who are you?'

'Well, I'm Dr Knowles, of course. Have you just arrived? I haven't seen you before.'

'Well, that makes two of us. Where's the prisoner?'

'The _patient_,' Dr Knowles corrected, with a disapproving look, 'is in there, obviously. You really are new, aren't you!'

'Let me see him,' John ordered, riding the crest of the wave of Knowles' naivety.

The doctor took the key from his pocket and turned towards the door, inserted the key and turned it. Then he stood back and said,

'You have to go in first, just in case he's waiting behind the door or something. But, frankly, I'd be surprised if he was, after what he's been through.'

It took all John's self-control not to lamp the man, at that casual remark, but instead he pushed open the door and stepped inside the room.

He was immediately hit by the foul stench of puke and piss, bad breath and sweaty bodies. The room was in darkness, but for the light pouring through the door, which he held wide so that he could look round and take in all the details of the room itself. It was stark and bare, with a small number of out-of-date medical fixtures and fittings, a hospital bed and, incongruously, a modern flat screen TV, on a trolley. It took him a moment to realise that there was also someone on the bed.

'Hold the door!' he snapped and Knowles did just that, wanting less and less to be here, with these military types who always ordered and never asked.

John crossed the floor and put his hand on the shoulder of the man in the bed. There was no response to his touch.

'Arthur? Can you hear me?' he asked, urgently, feeling under the jaw for a pulse. He found it and it was steady and strong bur quite slow.

'Is it him?' Sherlock's voice demanded, from the doorway.

'Who on earth are you?' demanded the Reparation Therapist, confused and alarmed.

'Shut up!' Sherlock barked. 'Is it him?'

'Yes, it's him. Come here, help me to roll him over.'

Sherlock looked at Knowles, with murder in his eyes, and said,

'Hold the door. And keep a look out. If you see or hear anyone coming, tell us, at once!'

The doctor nodded, frantically. These two strange men were even more scary than the ones he'd met already.

Sherlock crossed to the bed, too, and helped John to roll Arthur over. As he turned onto his back, he gave a groan and opened his eyes. They stared, blankly. John took out his flashlight and shone the light in first one eye and then the other. Both pupils were pin-pricks and hardly reacted at all.

'Arthur, can you hear me?' he asked again.

'John?' came a weak, breathy voice.

'Yes! It's me, John! And Sherlock's here, too. We've come to get you out!'

At the mention of Sherlock's name, Arthur's face darkened and he suddenly became animated, pushing John away and rolling off the bed. The reaction was so swift and unexpected that it took both the other two men by surprise and Arthur was on his feet, backing away from them, before they knew what was happening.

'No, no, not you!' he babbled, pointing an accusatory finger straight at the stunned detective. 'Keep away from me! You are contaminated. Don't touch me! Don't even look at me.'

'Arthur,' Sherlock soothed, 'It's me, Sherlock. I'm your friend.'

'No! You're NO friend to me. You are corrupted! I've seen it. I've seen it!'

John took hold of Sherlock's sleeve and drew him back, behind him.

'Stay back, Sherlock. He's not himself. They've given him something. Let me talk to him.'

Sherlock moved back into the shadows, against the wall, staggered by the terrible condition of this man who had helped him through two of the darkest times of his life. But John was reaching out a placatory hand, speaking in a calming tone.

'Arthur, listen to me. I'm John, remember. I'm here to help you.'

'John, he lied to me. He cheated. He used me and…the children! Oh God, the children! We have to save them. We must!'

'Come on, then! Let's go and save them. Come with me.'

John angled his body to block Arthur's view of Sherlock and extended an arm, to usher the disturbed man out of the room.

Arthur nodded, manically.

'Yes! Yes! We need to save them,' he gabbled and began to move toward the open door.

'Well, the gang's all here!' came an unfamiliar voice from the doorway – unfamiliar to all those present, except one.

Sherlock turned, in shock, toward the person who now stood where the therapist had previously stood, holding the door wide, to illuminate the scene inside the stinking prison room. He felt his capillaries contract and his skin turn icy cold. The breath caught in his throat, his pulse pounded in his ears and he felt immediately removed, disassociated, from the real world as he looked into the face of a man he had believed to be dead.

ooOoo


	28. Stolen Chapter Twenty Seven

**This chapter contains violence and a fair bit of cursing.**

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

As Colonel Moran stood propping open the door, two men, dressed all in black, squeezed past him into the room, aiming assault rifles - one at John and one at Sherlock. A third man, also in black, followed them in but walked over to Arthur and took him by the arm.

'I's OK, Arthur, you're OK. These men can't harm you now. Come, sit down.'

Arthur went with the man, passively, like a child with his carer, and sat on the bed, obediently. John watched this charade with a growing sense of outrage but he saw that Sherlock only had eyes for the 'Man in Charge', by the door.

'Who are you? What's going on?' John demanded.

'Doctor Watson, we meet again,' Moran purred.

'Do we? I'm sorry, you may have to refresh my memory.'

'Well, I suppose 'meet' is not quite the right word. I had you in my sights in a certain darkened swimming pool, several years ago, and again outside St Bart's Pathology Department, when your friend, here, decided to take a swan dive off the roof. Colonel Sebastian Moran, at your service.' He stood to attention and saluted, then relaxed back against the door.

'He usually carries a weapon,' Moran remarked, to the man with Arthur.

Blake moved over to stand in front of John and indicated for him to hold out his arms, to be searched. He found the ex-Service revolver tucked down the back of John's jeans and removed it, handing it to Moran.

Sherlock had still not said a word and John looked back at him, as concerned for his friend as he was for Arthur.

'Sherlock, he said, again. Still no reaction. The detective continued to stare at Moran.

'Er, look here,' came the cautious voice of Dr Knowles, peering round the door frame, from the corridor, into the room. 'I'm sure you people have it all covered from here. I think I'll be going. You don't need me any more. I'll send you my bill. I do take cheques or you could go through PayPal, alright?'

Moran looked at the other man and gave him a cold smile.

'Quite right, doctor, we don't need you any more. Goodbye.'

Dr Knowles nodded his gratitude at being dismissed and hastened away, toward the stairwell and freedom. Moran watched him go, with a detached sort of curiosity, until the man was just a few feet from the door to the stairs, then he raised John's pistol, with a studied nonchalance, and fired a single shot. The sound reverberated around the bare walls of the room and the corridor itself, causing everyone to flinch, Arthur most of all. He covered his ears with his hands and curled into a ball on the bed. Sherlock barely seemed to notice the noise but simply blinked.

John heard the crash as the doctor's lifeless body hit the floor and lay still, a pool of blood gradually spreading from the huge exit wound in the front of his skull.

Moran then turned his attention back to the room.

'Bring those two,' he ordered, indicating Sherlock and Arthur.

John went to protest but the man pointing the rifle at him just moved the barrel slightly, to remind him of the possible consequences of his actions, so he shut up. Blake took hold of Arthur's arm and dragged him to his feet. The young man went without objection, seeming barely aware of what was happening around, or even to, him.

The other man with a rifle approached Sherlock and went to grab his arm.

'Wait!' barked Moran. 'Give me your gun. He's tricky, that one. Don't give him any loop holes to exploit.'

The 'storm trooper' handed his rifle over to the Boss, caught hold of Sherlock's arm, twisted it up behind his back and frog marched him out of the room. He left without a word or a backward glance, leaving John none the wiser as to why the sudden appearance of Moran had had such a stupefying effect on the usually lightning-quick mind of the Consulting Detective.

Moran turned back to John and smiled that same cold smile he had used on the phoney doctor.

'Well, Dr Watson, it has been a pleasure to meet you properly, at last. Have a good evening.'

He then closed the door, shutting out all the light, and as John launched himself at the portal, he heard the key turn in the lock. He yanked at the handle but to no avail. He was trapped, good and proper.

ooOoo

Josie was sitting in the back seat of the SUV, where she had been shoved and told to sit still and keep quiet. She had realised, at some point during the walk through the hospital grounds, that these men were not Special Ops but Combat 18 and her knees had almost buckled at that epiphany. But the man's grip on her arm had kept her on her feet and moving forward, all the way to the kitchen of the cottage, where she had been dragged in front of several other men.

The one who was clearly the man in charge, since everyone else deferred to him, had looked her up and down then told her captor to put her in the car, outside, and make sure she stayed there. Her guard was now standing outside the vehicle, still pointing the gun straight at her – which she thought was rather futile since she was fairly sure that the glass in the car windows was bullet proof. The whole vehicle seemed to be armour plated.

She wondered what on earth she had gotten herself into and wished, for the umpteenth time, that she had listened to the sexist pig, Dr Watson, after all and stayed at home. As she sat, gazing out at the wilderness that had grown up around the deserted hospital, she saw a group of people approaching, down the uneven, weed-sprouting path from the main building. And as she focused on that group, she recognised three of them – Mick Robinson, Sherlock Holmes and her brother, Arthur.

Josie grabbed the handle and tried to open the door but it must have been child-locked and it stayed firmly shut. The guard outside shouted at her to sit still but, despite the gun pointed at her head from the other side of the glass, she pummeled the window with her fists and shouted,

'ARTHUR!'

The guard wrenched open the door and shoved the barrel of his assault rifle into her face.

'Shut up, you stupid bitch!' he growled.

Josie pushed the gun barrel aside and scrambled out of the open door, ducking under the guard's flailing arm as he tried to catch her, and running down the path toward the approaching group of men. The guard ran after her and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her over backwards, then he leaned heavily on her shoulder, with his knee.

'Get off me, you bastard!' she screamed, and beat at him with her free fist. 'I just want to see my brother!'

'Let her up,' Moran called out, laughing heartily.

The man got up and, the moment she felt herself free of the pin down, Josie scrambled to her feet and ran to Arthur, throwing her arms around his waist and hugging him tight.

'Arthur, lovie, are you alright?'

Arthur looked down at the top of her head, then put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her away so he could see her face. She gazed up into his ravaged features and could not believe her eyes.

'Oh, my god, Arthur! What have they done to you?' she sobbed, brought to tears by the hollow expression in his eyes.

'Josie…?' he gasped and hugged her to his chest.

'Sir!' Blake exclaimed. 'We're under attack!'

This galvanised the group into a blur of well-co-ordinated activity.

The hatchback of the SUV was opened and Sherlock was bundled into one of the rearward facing seats, his guard sitting next to him. Josie and Arthur were packed into the middle row of seats with a guard, Josie sitting between the two men. Moran jumped into the front passenger seat and Robinson into the driver's seat.

The vehicle was moving even before the doors had properly closed, bumping down the driveway, at breakneck speed, whilst the men left behind charged off in the opposite direction to engage with the forces ranged against them.

ooOoo

For the first few seconds after he found himself locked in the room that had formerly held Arthur, John pounded on the door and shouted his rage and frustration to absolutely nobody. Then his brain engaged again and he took out his mobile phone. No one had bothered to check for a phone. He wasn't sure if that was down to arrogance, stupidity or supreme confidence but – either way – he still had his phone. He dialled Mycroft's number.

It rang several times and was then transferred. The voice that answered was the annoying Irishman, again. Damn, John thought to himself, it's time to face the music.

'Where are those fucking boy scouts, Delaney?' he roared.

'Dr Watson, they are on the ground engaging the enemy, right now. Where are you?'

'I'm locked in a room on the second floor of the main hospital building and both Arthur and Sherlock have been taken, now.'

'Taken where?'

'How the fuck should I know? I'm not a bloody clairvoyant! Some guy called Moran showed up, with a bunch of heavies, and the minute he clapped eyes on him, Sherlock just lost the power of coherent speech! Then Moran shot the quack doctor, locked me in here and they all pissed off.'

'Dr Watson, we will get you out of there but, please understand, you are not our main priority at the moment,' Delaney replied, calmly, tapping away on a keyboard as he spoke.

ooOoo

'Sir,' Anthea said and was instantly afforded Mycroft's full attention. 'Bad news, I'm afraid.'

Mycroft nodded, infinitesimally, and she went on.

'It would appear that Moran was hands on but has now left Ground Zero. And, sir,' she paused, a warning that the next piece of information was the kill shot, 'he still has Alpha Beta and now, it appears, has Alpha Alpha too.'

Mycroft held his breath, gritted his teeth and said,

'Red Alert. Scramble everything.'

ooOoo

'Of course, I know I'm not your priority!' John Watson spat. 'I'm not stupid. Look, if they've left the hospital grounds, they're probably driving a black Audi Q7. There was one parked outside their billet. Didn't get the licence plate – too far away – but there can't be many of those on the road round here, surely.'

'Reinforcements are on the way, Dr Watson, and we have scrambled the police helicopter, whose priority will be to look for the SUV. Now, just sit tight and someone will come and free you, eventually.'

John cut the link and kicked out at the wheels of the bed, angry with himself, angry with Sherlock and angry as fuck with the people who had perpetrated this heinous crime against the people he loved.

ooOoo

Sitting in the back of the SUV, speeding down country lanes in the pitch dark, Sherlock was going over in his head the operation that had been the final act of his three year mission to dismantle Moriarty's international crime network. He had seen, with his very own eyes, Colonel Moran enter that building mere moments before it exploded.

He had walked through the rubble that was left, after the raging inferno had been extinguished, seen the charred remains of four bodies, one of which had been subsequently identified as Colonel Moran, from his military dental records. These things could not be faked – or so he thought. And yet, tonight he had seen the man himself and discovered that it was he who had sanctioned Arthur's abduction.

So this was all about Mycroft, after all. Arthur was just a pawn and now he was a pawn, too. Moran aimed to bring Mycroft down, to annihilate him, for masterminding the destruction of Moriarty's legacy and for causing Moriarty to destroy himself. This would be a sweet revenge, he had no doubt, and he had just made it a whole lot sweeter.

ooOoo


	29. Stolen Chapter Twenty Eight

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

The SUV had only travelled a couple of miles when it turned onto a duel carriageway road. In Sherlock's opinion, this was a risky move. He was sure that John would have alerted Mycroft to the situation by now and his brother's minions would be actively hunting for a black Audi Q7 in this area. It would be far more easily spotted on a major road than on a country lane. But far be it from him to inform his captors of their major error of judgement.

Then he felt the vehicle decelerating and he turned to look over his shoulder. Was it a road block? If so, his brother had excelled himself in speed of response. But it was not a road block. They were approaching a layby and, parked in the layby, was what Sherlock recognised as a large, deluxe horsebox, with the rear ramp lowered to the ground, exposing the empty interior.

The SUV slowed right down to a crawl and pulled into the layby. The driver, Robinson, lined it up, carefully, with the horse box ramp and drove right up it, into the box, applied the brake and immediately cut the engine, as two men standing either side of the larger vehicle, pulled up the ramp and locked it into place before running round to the cab, climbing in and driving off, with the SUV tucked safely away, inside.

In the quiet, low-lit interior of the Audi, Moran caught Sherlock's eye and gave a grin.

'How do you like my disappearing act?' he taunted. 'I got the idea from a Michael Caine movie. He plays a great villain, that man. I think he's my favourite actor. Had to have the floor reinforced, obviously, and the ramp, too, of course, but it was well worth the money, don't you think?'

Moran opened the passenger door as far as it would go, within the confines of the horse box, and slipped out. The detective watched his new Nemesis disappear through the Groom's Door, into the part of the box fitted out for human habitation, leaving Sherlock, Arthur and Josie inside the car with their three guards and their guns.

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the back of Josie's head, mere inches from his nose, where she sat in the middle row of seats, in this seven-seater vehicle. She was hugging her brother's arm, resting her head against his shoulder, but he was unresponsive.

'Josie, are you alright?' the detective asked, speaking quietly in the still air.

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, Arthur curled in on himself and leaned as far to the right as he could, pressing his shoulder against the side door. Josie raised her head, abruptly, as though she had just remembered that Sherlock was there, and rubbed her brother's arm, to sooth and comfort him, but he remained tense and withdrawn.

'I'm scared,' she replied, after a moment or two.

'I'm so sorry. I never should have let you get involved in this,' Sherlock murmured.

Josie twisted in her seat to look at him.

'Don't even go there, Sherlock. I'm here because I chose to come. No one is to blame but me.'

'Stop talking!' Mick Robinson snarled, from the driver's seat, and the two guards in the back seats jabbed their respective charges in the ribs with the butts of their rifles.

'Oh, take no notice of them, Josie,' Sherlock drawled, in his most dismissive and disdainful tone.

In response to that, Sherlock's minder shouldered his weapon and pointed the barrel, from inches away, right in the centre of the detective's forehead. Sherlock stared, insolently, past the gun barrel into the foot soldier's eyes.

'If you're planning to use that, I suggest you get on with it. Otherwise, get it out of my face.'

The soldier tightened his grip on the gun and did not desist until Robinson said,

'Stand down, Hawkins.'

Hawkins lowered the gun and resumed holding it across his chest.

'You see, Josie,' Sherlock continued, eyeballing the soldier, challengingly, 'if they intended to kill us, we'd be dead by now. They clearly have something else in mind.'

'What do you think that could be?' the young woman asked, not particularly comforted by Sherlock's analysis of the situation.

'I've no idea,' he replied, 'but I intend to ask!' he declared, brightly.

He turned to look at Robinson, meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror.

'Tell your boss I want to talk to him,' he demanded.

'He doesn't want to talk to you,' Robinson snapped back, rather put out by this arrogant prat's manner.

'Oh, you speak for Colonel Moran., do you? I rather doubt that! Go and tell him that I want to talk. I think you'll find him quite receptive to the notion.'

Robinson was torn between fear that Moran would be displeased by the interruption and fear that Moran would be angry if he did not deliver the message. Either way, Moran's anger was not something one wished to provoke. But that snitty bastard in the back seat was smirking at him and that really pissed him off. He made a decision.

'Don't take your eyes of him,' Robinson warned the other two men, then slid out of the car and walked round the bonnet to tap on the Groom's Door. He must have received permission to enter because he did so, and disappeared form sight, inside the Groom's Hole.

Moran was sitting in a comfortable leather wing chair, in the surprisingly well-appointed 'room'. He gave Robinson a quizzical look and listened with ill-disguised amusement to Sherlock's demand for a parlais. He didn't even have to think about it.

'Bring him in!' he exclaimed. 'Let's hear what he has to say for himself.'

Robinson returned to the back of the horse box and squeezed along to the rear of the car then opened the hatchback.

'Get him out,' he snapped at the guard, who jumped from the car and stood back as Sherlock stepped, gracefully, down from the vehicle, then turned and leaned back in, as if to kiss Josie on the cheek, but whispered,

'Don't be afraid. Just take care of Arthur. You're both going to be OK.'

Robinson reached in and grabbed Sherlock by the arm, dragged him out of the back of the car and slammed the hatchback shut then shoved him through the narrow gap between the side of the car and the wall of the horsebox, toward the Groom's Door.

Josie watched him go, marvelling at the calm dignity with which he bore all the pushing and shoving around. He didn't resist or object, he just took it, with a strange half-smile on his lips. It was this, along with his verbal reassurances, that filled her with hope. He looked like a man with a plan.

ooOoo

As the plane came in to land at London City Airport, Mycroft was straight on the phone to Delaney.

'We have captured eight personnel – all alive, some injured but nothing life-threatening. It is believed that Moran escaped in a black Audi Q7, with three hostages and three additional personnel. However, so far, no trace can be found of the Audi. Nothing on any traffic cameras or from any eye witnesses. The police helicopter is still searching and we have an All Points Alert across ten counties.

We have located Dr Watson and the body of one IC1 male, Phillip Knowles. He advertised himself as a Reparation Therapist, sir. According to Dr Watson, he was hired to 'convert' Alpha Beta. Watson claims that Moran shot Knowles with Watson's gun – an illegal weapon, sir – but no gun has been found at the scene. We are processing the scene. We will have more information, shortly.'

'You said there were three hostages,' Mycroft queried. 'Who is the third?'

'We believe, sir, that the third hostage is Miss Josephine Braocklehurst, the sister of Alpha Beta. Dr Watson advises us that she drove him and Alpha Alpha to the target location in her brother-in-law's car. We have located the car, where Watson told us it would be, and it is empty. No sign of a struggle.'

'Oh, for God's sake!' Mycroft muttered, furious at the debacle which this operation had become.

'We must keep this out of the public domain, do you understand?' he hissed.

'Yes, sir, I understand,' Delaney replied.

'Who's on the ground?'

'The assault team, the local police and two of our regional agents,' Delaney advised.

'Good. This is the official story – make sure EVERYONE is briefed,' Mycroft began. 'Acting on information received, the hospital was raided by anti-terror personnel and arrests were made of terror suspects who were using the disused hospital as a base. Some members of the cell, who were not present at the time of the raid, are being sought. I want no mention of hostages or dead bodies. Understand?'

'Yes, sir. Affirmative.'

'I want all of Alpha Beta's relations taken into protective custody and placed in a safe house. Do this with the MINIMUM of fuss. The cover story is that a family member has been taken seriously ill and the entire family have been called to their bedside. Make sure that their employers are all informed, so as not to arouse any suspicion.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And, finally, I will be transferring to a helicopter and flying to Ground Zero myself. Please appraise our agents on the ground of that fact.'

'Yes, sir.'

Mycroft hung up. He was still sitting in the private jet, which had taxied to the terminal, during his conversation. He looked over at Anthea, seated across the aisle.

'I have arranged for a private helicopter to take us there, sir,' she assured him, as she stood up. 'I'll go and make sure all the arrangements are in order.'

Mycroft nodded his thanks and she disembarked from the plane.

Yes, Anthea would be hard to replace, if she ever decided to further her career in the service. Not only had she anticipated that he would want to go to Stalybridge by the fastest means possible but she also knew that he would need privacy to call home and tell Molly that her husband was missing in action, believed captured.

ooOoo

Molly was in bed but not asleep. She found it hard to sleep when Sherlock wasn't beside her, even when she knew he was somewhere safe. It was nigh impossible when he was on one of his Big Adventures. Yes, that was how she thought of his escapades. This was the man to whom she had given her heart and the father of her children but she was under no illusions as to the kind of man he was, that he was an adrenalin junkie, hopelessly addicted to danger.

So this was her life and always would be, keeping everything running smoothly at home, staying outwardly calm and cheerful, for the sake of the children, but lying awake at night, wondering if they would ever see him alive again. When her phone rang on the night stand, she looked at it, apprehensively, then picked it up.

'Yes, Mycroft, tell me the worst,' she said.

And he did.

ooOoo


	30. Stolen Chapter Twenty Nine

**References to suicide, murder and sexual abuse.**

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

Robinson manhandled Sherlock through the Groom's Door, into Moran's presence and held him in place, by one arm and the back of his jacket.

'Alright, Robinson, you can go. Hawkins, you stay. Over there.' Moran indicated, with a movement of his head, where Hawkins should stand.

Robinson gave Sherlock a final shove, in the small of his back, and left the room. Sherlock staggered forward but regained his composure quickly, shrugged his jacket back into place on his shoulders and brushed some imaginary lint from his lapels, as Hawkins took up his position, in the corner of the room.

'Mr Holmes, please sit down,' Moran gestured toward a chair that matched his own. 'Can I offer you anything? A brandy, perhaps?'

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock replied, unfastening the bottom button on his jacket and taking the seat.

Moran took two brandy balloons from the cabinet to his right and poured two measures of Tesseron Vintage brandy, offering one to his guest and taking the other himself. He settled back in his seat and swirled the spirit in the glass, eyeing Sherlock with an expression of mild amusement, waiting for the detective to open the batting.

Sherlock sniffed the amber liquid, rolling the glass between the palms of his hands to release the aroma, then took a small sip and said,

'Why Arthur?'

Moran looked moderately surprised but answered,

'Isn't that obvious?'

'Not to me,' Sherlock replied.

'Well, your brother obviously thinks highly of the man. He's willing to pay for his education and he recently asked him to be his…husband? I'm not terribly sure of the correct terminology, gay marriage being such a recent phenomenon.'

'And, on that evidence you decided…what? That Arthur was the most important person in my brother's life?'

'Well, obviously not as important as his children but, Mr Holmes, really! Even I would not kidnap children!'

'No? It wouldn't be the first time, surely?'

'That was not my idea. I was merely following orders.'

'Well, either way, you clearly don't know my brother very well.'

'And do you intend to enlighten me, or just sit there, looking smug and drinking my sixty year old brandy?'

Sherlock took another sip of the Tesseron and said,

'My brother is a man of discerning taste and Arthur is a very special person – unique, even, in my opinion. But Mycroft is cursed with a very short attention span. Right now, I'm sure he imagines himself to be in love with Arthur and is, more than likely, beside himself with worry about his welfare but, if Arthur were to die – today, tomorrow, next month – Mycroft would be upset, initially, but he would recover.'

A pause for another sip of brandy, then,

'You see, my brother thinks of his fellow humans as…goldfish. Arthur is probably a very special kind of goldfish but a goldfish, none the less, and therefore easily replaced. So, if you think you can use Arthur as leverage against my brother then, I'm afraid, you are barking up the wrong tree…or fishing in the wrong pond, or whatever.'

'So, what are you suggesting? Shall I just have Hawkins, here, go and shoot him and his feisty sister, right now?'

'Well, you could. But if you did, you would lose the best chance you have of hitting the Iceman exactly where it hurts.'

'And where might that be?' Moran asked, his bland expression beginning to tighten up around the mouth and eyes, at Sherlock's dismissive arrogance.

'The only human being that my brother really cares about – apart from his children, as we have already established – is me. I'm the only non-goldfish in his life and it would damage him irreparably if anything were to happen to me.'

'I find that hard to believe. After all, he sent you off round the world for three years, taking down my old boss's empire. He didn't seem very concerned for your welfare, then.'

'That was a calculated risk and he always made sure I was very well-supported. I was never in any real danger,' Sherlock lied, with perfect equanimity.

'I'm not convinced, Mr Holmes. You're going to have to do a lot better than that.'

'Look here, Mycroft is singularly self-obsessed. When Arthur disappeared, he was immediately convinced that this was aimed at him.'

'Well, it was.'

'Yes, but he ignored the Northern Connection. He wasn't even prepared to give it house room. That's why I came to Stalybridge. I came because I really do care about Arthur.'

'What? You have the hots for your brother's boyfriend? That must make for a cosy Christmas Dinner!'

'Colonel Moran, I'm a married man!' Sherlock retorted, in mock outrage. 'But I knew Arthur before my brother did. I suppose I introduced them. And I would not wish for anything bad to happen to him. If that were to occur, I would withdraw my co-operation and, as previously stated, you would lose your best shot at Mr Minor Official and all his British Government cronies.'

'Are you offering me a deal, Mr Holmes?'

'I suppose I am.'

'And what are your terms and conditions?'

'I will assist you in your efforts to bring down my brother and the British Government in return for you letting Arthur and his sister go free, unharmed.'

'And why would you do that?' Moran sneered, sceptically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, for added effect.

'I'm sure you are aware that there is no love lost between me and my brother – not on my side, at least. We have never seen eye to eye. He has an annoying habit of always wanting to run my life and stop me doing the things I really want to do. He achieves this by retaining control of my endowment, even now, when I'm married with a young family to support. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see my brother publicly humiliated.'

Moran looked singularly unconvinced.

'Why should I believe you? How do I know you won't renege on your agreement, as soon as I let Arthur and his sister go?'

Sherlock pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, as though giving this question serious consideration.

'Tell me what you had in mind for Arthur.'

'Mr Holmes, do you think I'm an idiot? Why should I tell you anything?'

'Fine, don't tell me. You go ahead with your little plan and don't say I didn't warn you when Mycroft just laughs in your face.'

Sherlock sat back in his chair, with a petulant shrug and sipped his brandy some more.

Moran was in a quandary. He did not trust this man at all but he was aware of the long-standing feud between the Holmes brothers and he also believed that Sherlock's testimony would be far more damning that that of Arthur, if he could obtain it.

'Suppose I do accept your offer to work with me against your brother, what assurances can you give me that you won't withdraw your co-operation as soon as I let the other two go?'

'Well, you'll still have me in your clutches, won't you? If I don't play ball, you can always kill me. And, believe me, Colonel, I have absolutely no desire to die.'

Moran was thinking. They had the film which appeared to show Mycroft Holmes sexually abusing his own brother. If he could back this up with a public statement by the brother himself that this was in fact true, what a devastating effect that would have on not only the Iceman but the elected Government of Britain! If the great British public believed that the architect of Westminster's response to the latest historical sex abuse scandal was an abuser himself, how disastrous would that be?

His plans for Arthur had been simple. Destabilise him with drugs and depravation, show him evidence of his lover's infidelity and depravity, video him denouncing his former lover and then push him off the roof of the hospital, the very hospital where he had volunteered as a school boy - a suitably personalised place to which one might return, in despair, in order to end one's life.

But with Sherlock in the starring role, how much more powerful a message might that send to the populace, already disenchanted with the old guard? And if the price for his co-operation was the safe return of Arthur and the young woman, surely that was of small consideration. Having to accommodate three hostages was a burden and killing the other two would alienate the very members of the public they were hoping to influence.

Moran looked across at the other man. Holmes was savouring his drink, with a sort of detached boredom that the Colonel found all too familiar. It was so reminiscent of Jim Moriarty, as to be painful. And he was thus reminded why he so needed to destroy Mycroft Holmes – politically, professionally, personally, psychologically. Yes, he would accept the offer made by this spoilt brat of a man, sitting opposite him, and once his purpose had been served, he would kill him anyway, and send his body back to his brother, one piece at a time.

Sherlock noticed that he was being observed and returned Moran's gaze.

'Mr Holmes, you have a deal,' the Colonel declared, offering his hand.

'I will require irrefutable evidence that Arthur and Josie have been returned, safe and sound, to their family or the deal is off.'

'What would you consider that to be?'

'Skype.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I will speak to them on Skype, so I can verify by their surroundings that they are at home, and they will tell me themselves that they are safe and unhurt.'

'I suppose that can be arranged,' Moran confirmed.

'and I will know, if they are being coerced, believe me.'

Moran nodded.

Sherlock took his hand and gave it a firm shake.

The Colonel got up and opened an access door to the driver's cab, where he addressed the man riding shotgun.

Where are we?' he asked.

'Peak District National Park, sir,' came the reply.

'Be more precise,' he demanded.

'On the A635, just south of Wessenden Head, just approaching the junction with the Wessenden Head Road,' the man corrected himself.

'Perfect. Pull over.'

As the horse box slowed to a stop, Moran crossed the Groom's Hole and opened the Groom's Door. Robinson jumped out of the Audi, at the appearance of his commander, and listened attentively to his orders.

'Get the boyfriend and his sister out of the car,' Moran instructed, opening the side door of the horse box and stepping down onto the road. 'Bring them to me,' he added.

Robinson went back round the car and opened the passenger door on Arthur's side. He reached in and pulled Arthur out by his arm.

Josie hung on to her brother's other arm, terrified that they were to be separated.

'Get her out, too,' Robinson barked at Josie's guard.

The other man dragged Josie out and the two siblings were bundled out of the side door and down onto the road. Josie looked around. They were in the middle of nowhere, somewhere high up on the moor, on a bare, two lane highway, the only light coming from the headlamps of the horse box and the big, bright moon, in the western sky.

Josie caught hold of Arthur's arm again, trying to control the rising panic, wondering what fate these men had in store for them. The Big Cheese was staring at them, but she could not see his features well enough, in the dark, to gauge his expression. Her gaze kept sliding to the man with the gun and her heart pounded in her chest.

'Well, Miss Brocklehurst, may I say it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance. You are a woman after my own heart and, I feel, under different circumstances, we could have been good friends but, c'est la vie.'

He looked around at the stark, barren land scape.

'I'm afraid this is where we must part company…'

'No!' Josie screeched, wrapping her arms around Arthur's upper body, in an attempt to shield him from the bullets that she expected to start flying, at any moment.

'Well, I can't say I'm not surprised. I would have thought you'ld be glad to see the back of us. However, places to go, people to see. Goodbye, Miss Brocklehurst and do, please, give my regards to your brother when he eventually regains his senses.'

The guard kept his assault rifle trained on the brother and sister while Moran and Robinson climbed back into the horse box, then he reversed over to the side door and climbed in himself. The door closed, the engine picked up and the horse box drew away, into the night.

Stunned by this completely unexpected change of circumstance, Josie stood gaping at the retreating tail lights of the getaway vehicle then she came, suddenly, to a full understanding of the situation and screamed,

'Sherlock!'

ooOoo


	31. Stolen Chapter Thirty

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Thirty**

Just after Moran left the Groom Hole, Sherlock heard the side door open and the sound of Arthur and Josie being manhandled out of the horsebox. He got up from his chair to walk over to the side window, putting his hands in his trouser pockets and moving with something of a swagger.

The moment he stood up, his guard growled, 'Sit down!' and shouldered his weapon, pointing it at the detective's chest.

Strolling, defiantly, across the room, he addressed the glowering foot soldier, in a disparaging tone.

'Oh, for God's sake, Hawkins,' Sherlock drawled. 'Didn't you just hear me make a deal with your boss? Do really think he would want you to shoot me before I can fulfil my side of the bargain? If, by any chance, you should have more than one brain cell inside that head of yours, perhaps you try rubbing them together, to see if you can make a spark.'

Hawkins gritted his teeth but continued to point the gun at the hostage, despite the fact that the man was clearly unimpressed by the gesture.

Sherlock stood by the window, observing the scene taking place on the side of the road, and switched on the phone in his trouser pocket. He had assumed, quite correctly, that the terror cell had a scanner so he knew he had only one opportunity to use his mobile before it was discovered, so he thumbed in a brief but carefully worded text and sent it to his brother's phone.

_Deal done. A & J freed. Come get. SH_

Even as he pressed 'SEND', the 'shotgun' emerged from the driver's cab, through the adjoining door, and said to Hawkins,

'He has a cell phone.'

The guard took a step towards Sherlock and snarled,

'Hands in the air!'

The detective took his hands out of his pockets and raised them to head height, his mobile clearly visible in his right hand. The driver's mate held out his hand and snapped his fingers.

'Give!' he snapped.

Sherlock looked at Hawkins and quirked an eyebrow.

'Give him the phone,' Hawkins grunted.

The hostage extended his arm and dropped the mobile into the waiting palm, then returned his hand to the side of his head, just as the Groom's Door opened and Moran came back in.

'What's going on?' he asked.

Shotgun showed him the mobile.

'Mr Holmes, you haven't been entirely honest with me, have you?' he chided.

'Not at all, Colonel. You never asked me if I had a phone and no one thought to search me, so I saw no reason to disclose that information. I assumed you didn't care.'

'But you've used your phone to communicate with someone,' Moran went on.

'Quite correct. I've texted my brother. You can read it, if you like.'

As Moran opened the Message app and read the last item, he called to the driver,

'Let's go,' and the horsebox began to move again.

'You should thank me, actually,' Sherlock huffed. 'I mean to say, you've just abandoned those two people in the middle of nowhere. It may well be July but this is the UK, not the Cote d'Azure, and neither of them is exactly equipped for a night on Bald Mountain. Arthur is in scrubs and bare feet and Josie is dressed for the office. Remember, I did say 'returned, safe and sound, to their family'. Dying of exposure is not my idea of 'returned safe and sound.''

He stared, insolently, at the colonel, who stared back then nodded and handed the phone back to the shotgun rider.

'Deal with that, will you?'

The man took the phone back into the cab with him and closed the adjoining door, leaving Sherlock wondering, idly, what 'deal with' might entail.

'Do sit down again, Mr Holmes,' Moran insisted, as he resumed his own seat. 'We have about a two hour journey so you might as well make yourself comfortable and finish your drink.'

Sherlock did as he was bid and returned to his seat.

'I would be considerably more comfortable if you could dismiss the goon. He seems to have a rather itchy trigger finger,' he grunted.

Moran laughed then gestured to Hawkins to leave them. He departed, through the Groom's Door and Moran smiled at his new partner in crime.

'I can see you are dying to know how I did it,' he smirked.

'Did what?' Sherlock enquired.

'You know 'what',' Moran sneered. 'However, if you're not interested, I won't bore you with the details.'

'Oh, go on, then,' Sherlock condescended, 'if you insist.'

Moran settled into his seat and began to explain how he survived the explosion in the restaurant in Pecs.

ooOoo

As the red tail lights of the horsebox faded from view, Arthur sank down to sit in the road.

'No, no, Arthur, luv, y' can't just sit there,' Josie insisted, pulling at her brother's arm. 'It's too cold, y'll catch y' death.'

'No, Josie, leave me alone,' he groaned, I can't... Just leave me.'

'I can't leave y', y' daft pillock,' she retorted but she let go of his arm and stood up straight, to look around.

By the light of the almost full moon she could see that they were at a high point on the moor, with the land dropping away in all directions but one. The road snaked away to the east and west, undulating with the contours of the land. There were no trees or large bushes, just scrub land and a network of dry stone walls. She could not see a single light, in the whole panorama, to indicate a farm house or a cottage.

The wind was sharp from the north-west and Josie shivered in her light suit jacket. She looked down at her brother once again and saw that he was shaking violently, in his thin hospital scrubs and lack of foot wear. She had to weigh their options. If they stayed on the road, they might be lucky and catch a passing stray car but they would be exposed to the wind. If they sheltered behind one of the dry stone walls, they could huddle together for warmth but they would be hidden from the road.

She took hold of Arthur's arm again.

'Come on, luvie, we have to get behind that wall,' she urged her brother, taking the second option.

ooOoo

In the airborne helicopter, wearing a headset for communication and noise defence, Mycroft looked out of the side window at the ribbons of street lighting and clusters of habitation, as the chopper skimmed over the landscape.

Anthea touched his arm to get his attention and handed him her phone, to read the text from Delaney, which included the message received from Sherlock's phone.

_Deal done. A & J freed. Come get. SH_

_Have identified location from which text sent. Police and paramedics dispatched. Will advise._

Mycroft stared at the message from his brother and felt his stomach lurch as rival emotions competed for dominance. How very typical of Sherlock, to sacrifice his own safety for that of others. How noble and how infuriating! The Iceman's relief and gratitude at Arthur's release was almost cancelled out by his concern for his siblings own well-being. But he reminded himself that Sherlock was a resourceful field operative who had survived three years' Deep Cover. If only one person were to come out of this alive, the likelihood was that it would be him.

He passed the phone back to his PA and asked the pilot, via the microphone attached to his headset, what their ETA might be.

'Approximately 55 minutes,' came the reply.

They had been flying for thirty minutes already. Mycroft looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. This had been a very long day and it was nowhere near being over.

ooOoo

Sitting on the damp grass, Josie hunkered down behind the old stone wall, with Arthur's head and shoulders in her lap. She pressed her body against his back and wrapped her arms around him, to try and cover as much of him as possible and transfer her body heat to him. He had stopped shivering but, somehow, she knew that was not a good thing. His hands and feet felt very cold to the touch.

She rubbed his extremities vigorously, to keep the circulation going, and talked to him, continuously, about every subject under the sun, to try and hold his attention, as she felt him slipping into unconsciousness.

Then, she heard the impossible, a car engine approaching.

'Arthur! Arthur! Wake up!' she urged, pushing at his shoulders, in an effort to rouse him. She was pinned down by his weight and unless she could get him to sit up, she would not be able to wriggle out from underneath him to run to the road, to flag down the vehicle that was getting closer by the second.

'Arthur, you have to MOVE!' she screeched, as the headlights of their best chance of rescue lit up the surrounding area but did not shine on her or her brother, blocked from view by the foot-thick wall.

She was frantic, now, almost in tears, as she struggled in vain to push her brother off her legs but then she heard the sound of the vehicle's engine change and she realised it was slowing down. The car stopped, up on the road, just a few metres away and she heard a door open and a voice – loud in the cold night air – saying,

'I can't see anyone. Are you sure we've got the right location?'

'Here! Here!' Josie shouted. 'We're over here! Help us, please!'

With a superhuman effort, she managed to push Arthur to one side and scrambled to her feet, to look over the wall at a police car, painted in luminescent paint that glowed in the moonlight, and a police constable staring straight at her, looking extremely surprised. Then, Josie heard the sound of another vehicle approaching and, as she looked back along the road towards home, she saw an ambulance with blue lights flashing, racing towards them.

ooOoo

John Watson stood outside the cottage that had been used as a base by Moran's men and watched the helicopter bearing Mycroft Holmes turn into the wind and come in to land on the road, fifty yards away. The rotors slowed and the engine whined down in pitch as the side door opened and the man himself stepped down onto the tarmac and turned to offer a hand to his PA, Anthea Smith.

The ex-Army doctor strode purposefully towards his friend's brother, anticipating a scathing verbal dressing down for allowing Sherlock to attempt the botched rescue that had resulted in both him and Josie being taken hostage, as well as Arthur. He was prepared to take it on the chin. He knew he deserved it.

'John, is there any news?' Mycroft asked, flummoxing the doctor, completely.

'Not that I know of, Mycroft,' John replied, 'but I'm not really in the intel loop. The local agents are in the main building, over-seeing the crime scene investigation, and the police won't tell me anything. The Special Ops guys have gone, taking the suspects with them. I've just been twiddling my thumbs for God knows how long.'

He suddenly realised that he sounded like a fractious, complaining child, so he shut up. Mycroft put a hand on his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile.

'Anthea will bring you up to speed, so far as she can,' he assured the other man then strode off, down the path, toward the front entrance to the main hospital building.

John looked at Anthea then gestured toward the cottage.

'Cup of tea?' he asked to which she nodded, smiled and walked inside. She sat at the table and John shrugged out of his jacket and lit the camping stove then filled the kettle. She had just begun to explain about the text from Sherlock, when her mobile message alert pinged. Taking out her phone, she read the text and exclaimed,

'Hold the tea, we're leaving. Arthur and his sister have been found and are being taken to Tameside Hospital. We need to go there.'

As she was speaking, she dialled Mycroft's number and passed on the same message to him, as John switched off the camping stove and pulled his jacket back on.

ooOoo


	32. Stolen Chapter Thirty One

**Reference made to torture and non-consensual drug abuse.**

**Chapter Thirty One**

Anthea closed her phone.

'We need to go to the main building. Agent Richmond will take us to the hospital.'

She and Dr Watson walked briskly down the path together and arrived at the main entrance to the hospital just as Mycroft and Richmond came outside. They all climbed into the agent's car, with John in the front passenger seat, Mycroft and Anthea sitting in the back.

'So, pardon my ignorance, but who exactly is this Colonel Moran?' John asked.

'He was Moriarty's secret weapon,' Mycroft explained. 'He was an officer in the British Army, working in Special Ops. Made quite a name for himself during the invasion of Iraq. He was a sniper, by profession, excellent shot. His men came to refer to him as 'the colonel' and the title stuck but he never actually achieved that rank, officially. When he left the service, he was recruited by Moriarty, who kept him for special occasions – tricky jobs, that required a certain degree of audacity, which was and is Moran's signature quality.'

'OK. So how did he manage to escape the pogrom, when Sherlock and your lot were dismantling Moriarty's organisation and neutralising all his operatives?' John asked, quite reasonably.

'Well, so far as we were aware, he didn't,' Anthea took up the narrative. 'Moran was actually Sherlock's last assignment for that operation. Our people had tracked Moran to Pecs, in Hungary, and we had been monitoring his activities, there. He had established himself as a primary importer/exporter of illegal drugs.

It had come to our attention that there was a particular restaurant that Moran frequented, usually after hours, so we set up a meeting between him and Sherlock – or rather his alter ego, Lars Sigerson, the representative of a consortium who specialised in sourcing and importing Class A drugs, direct from the producers, in this case, the poppy farmers of Afghanistan.

Prior to the date and time of the meeting, our people gained access to the restaurant, posing as regular customers, and planted a number of explosive devices. On the night of the meeting, a few moments after Moran entered the building after it closed, when there were no ordinary members of the public present, the explosives were detonated by remote control.

It had been rigged to look like a gas explosion and to ensure that the entire building was gutted – demolished, in fact. After the conflagration had been doused, the remains of four bodies were found in the rubble – they were identified as the chef, two henchmen and Moran himself. So, as far as we were concerned, Moran had been terminated.'

'So the chef didn't count as a member of the public?'

'Collateral damage, Dr Watson,' Anthea replied. 'Unfortunate but unavoidable.'

'Well, no wonder Sherlock was so shocked when he saw the man alive,' John exclaimed.

'No, John,' Mycroft interjected. 'I don't doubt he was surprised but I doubt he was as shocked as he made out.'

'Mycroft, trust me, I saw him and he was stupefied!' John insisted.

'That's what he would have wanted you and everyone else present to think,' Mycroft replied. 'but I believe that when he became aware that Moran was leading the operation, it was a game changer. For him, the main objective became the eradication of Moran. And, in order to achieve that, he had to go wherever Moran went. He had to be taken prisoner.'

'So you think he let them take him on purpose?' John snorted.

'No, I don't think, I know he did. He would also know that, whatever use Moran had in mind for Arthur, it would most definitely end in his demise. So, he had to create an opportunity to make a bargain for Arthur's – and, of course, his sister's - freedom. Offering himself as an alternative would be the best option available.'

'But Moran already had him - and the other two! So why would he need to make a deal?' John argued.

'I have no idea,' Mycroft replied. 'But, whatever it was he needed, Sherlock obviously deduced it because it worked. He let Arthur and Josie go.'

John could not argue with the logic of that. He did feel a little miffed that he had been taken in by his friend's acting skills, yet again, but there were more pressing issues to address.

'Er, Mycroft, speaking of Arthur, I think I should warn you, he's in a bit of a state.'

Mycroft looked away for a moment then said,

'Please elaborate, Dr Watson.'

'Well, I'm sure you are aware of the sort of methods these so-called Reparation Therapists use in order to affect their 'conversions'.'

'I am…acquainted with their methods, yes.'

'Well, Arthur was really not himself. I think he'd been drugged, certainly tortured and there was a television in the room with an inbuilt DVD player and no cable or satellite feed, so I can only assume they had been showing him DVD's of some sort or another, presumably whilst under the influence of the drugs. And he did have a rather bizarre reaction to Sherlock.'

'Please explain, doctor,' Mycroft prompted.

'Well, he was fine with me but when I told him Sherlock was there, he went a bit crazy. He jumped off the bed and told Sherlock not to touch him or even look at him. Said something about him being 'contaminated'. When Sherlock tried to reason with him, he called him 'corrupted' and said he'd seen it, whatever 'it' was. I told Sherlock to back off and spoke to Arthur myself and, again, he was fine with me. But he said something really strange. He said,

'…_he lied to me. He cheated. He used me and…the children!' _And then he said,_ 'We have to save them. We must!'_

I was trying to get him out of that place so I told him I would help him save the children and he was keen to come with me, but then Moran showed up and it all went pear-shaped.'

As John finished relating his version of events, Mycroft looked extremely pensive and made no response. Moments later, the vehicle in which they were riding turned into the driveway to the Tameside Hospital and the time for talking was over.

ooOoo

Once inside the Reception Area of the A and E department, Agent Richmond approached the book-in desk, on behalf of the party. He showed the Receptionist his ID and explained that the people with him needed to speak urgently with the man and woman who had been found on the moors. The Receptionist rang through to the Treatment Area and was given the go-ahead to admit them.

They passed through the security door and were met, on the other side, by a Nurse Practitioner who introduced himself as Robert. He checked Richmond's ID, again, then said,

'You can certainly speak to the young lady. She is not too badly off and is alert and lucid. The young man, however, is not so good. He's currently in the Emergency Room, being treated by one of our Trauma specialists.'

John sneaked a glance at Mycroft to see how he was taking this news but his face remained impassive and the Nurse Practitioner led them between two rows of curtained treatment cubicles until they came to the one that contained Josie.

She was reclining on a treatment couch and a uniformed WPC, sitting on a chair beside her, stood up when they walked in but Agent Richmond showed her his ID, too, and asked her to wait outside the cubicle.

As soon as Josie saw John, she shot upright and said,

'Oh, John! 'E saved us! 'E traded 'imself for us! I don't know what 'e said to that man, bu' 'e persuaded 'im to le' us go an' then they took 'im away wi' 'em!'

John hurried to her side and took her hand, employing his best bedside manner to sooth and calm her.

'It's OK, Josie, we know. We know what he did.'

''Ow do you know? Why? 'Ave they let 'im go, too?'

'No, no, they haven't let him go. He sent a text, telling us that he had made a deal, that you and Arthur had been freed and that we should come and get you. And we were able to find your location from the mobile phone signal – the masts that picked up and relayed the text. That's how we found you.'

'Oh, so that's wha' t' policeman meant. I see,' she murmured. 'I wondered 'ow they found us so quickly. We weren't there much more th'n an hour.'

Josie then noticed the other people standing behind John. She looked from one to the other and her eyes settled on Mycroft.

'Oo are these people?' she asked.

'Oh,' John exclaimed, as though he had only just remembered that the others were there, too. 'This is Mycroft, Arthur's fiancé and Sherlock's brother. And this is Anthea, his PA and…'

He petered out, there, because it was obvious that Josie was no longer listening. She was staring at Mycroft, looking rather bemused, as though he wasn't exactly what she had been expecting.

He ignored her reaction and stepped forward, offering his hand.

'Miss Brocklehurst, I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, though one would have preferred that the circumstances had been different.'

Josie took his hand, automatically, but said nothing.

Mycroft released her hand and tuned to Agent Richmond.

'Please take a statement from Miss Brocklehurst. Endeavour to obtain as much information as possible to advise us in our search for my brother and his abductors. Dr Watson, please assist in that, if you wouldn't mind.'

He then turned to the Nurse Practitioner and said,

'I wish to see my fiancé.'

The man called Robert was about to give a negative response but there was something about the almost pleading look in the eye of this man who, quite obviously, never pleaded for anything that changed his shake of the head into a nod and he led Mycroft and Anthea from the Treatment Area, through some double doors, to a Family Room.

'Please take a seat, Mr..?'

'Holmes,' said Mycroft.

'Mr Holmes. I will go and speak to the doctor on duty. I won't be a moment.'

Mycroft and Anthea sat down and then Anthea got up again and went to the nearby vending machine, returning with two Styrofoam cups of black coffee. She handed one to Mycroft, who sniffed it, grimaced, but then decided to drink it anyway.

After about fifteen minutes, the door opened and a man in scrubs entered the room. He looked from Mycroft to Anthea then addressed the latter, offering his hand.

'Miss Holmes? I believe you are Mr Brocklehurst's fiancé?'

'No,' Mycroft interjected. 'I am Mr Brocklehurst's fiancé, _Mr_ Holmes. This is Miss Smith, my PA.'

The doctor looked embarrassed but soon recovered, apologised for his faux pas and addressed the correct person.

'Mr Holmes, we were advised by the police that there is a news blackout on the circumstances of your fiancé's abduction and they have refused to share any information with me or my staff.'

Mycroft nodded.

'As you must understand, that makes it rather difficult to make decisions about his treatment.'

Mycroft nodded, again.

'Do you have any information you can give me that might help me in the treatment of my patient?'

Mycroft nodded yet again and said,

'He was abducted for the purpose of being treated for homosexuality by a Reparation Therapist.'

The doctor gave a nod of understanding.

'Well, that makes more sense of everything,' he replied. 'He has a number of different traumas.'

'Could you be more specific, doctor?' Mycroft asked.

'I can but I must warn you, it will not be pleasant to hear.'

'I understand that. Please elaborate.'

The doctor proceeded to describe Arthur's various traumas, including the beatings, the poisoning, the cocktail of different drugs that he had been tricked into ingesting and the hypothermia, caused by his abandonment on the moor.

'He hasn't spoken since he arrived here but his sister says he's not himself. She seems to think they 'messed with his head', if you will pardon the expression. Some of the drugs he has been given might well account for his confusion and delusional - even paranoid – perception.'

That certainly fitted with what John had already disclosed.

'Is he conscious?' Mycroft enquired.

'Yes, but rather withdrawn. As I say, he hasn't spoken at all since he arrived.'

'May I see him?' Mycroft asked.

'Yes, but do be aware that he may not respond to you.'

Mycroft nodded and, rising from his seat, followed the doctor out of the Family Room.

ooOoo


	33. Stolen Chapter Thirty Two

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Thirty Two**

'Miss Brocklehurst, we understand that the vehicle used to abduct you and your brother was an Audi Q7 SUV. Is that correct?'

'I've no idea wha' make of car it were. It were big an' black an' 'ad tinted windows. An' seven seats. An' I'm pretty sure tha' t' windows were bullet proof an' t' car were armour-plated. It just looked smaller on t' inside than it should 'a' been, if you know wha' I mean.'

'That sounds like the vehicle Sherlock and I saw, parked outside the cottage, in the hospital grounds,' John confirmed.

'But we could find no trace of the vehicle on any of the traffic cameras or via the police helicopter that was sent up,' the agent pointed out.

'Oh, no, you wouldn't!' Josie exclaimed. 'Y'see, they drove t' car into a lorry tha' were waitin' in a layby on t' duel carriageway, jus' outside o' town.'

'A lorry?'

'Ye', a big lorry. The boss bloke, 'e said 'e go' the idea from a Michael Caine movie. The car drove in, they pu' up t' ramp and t' lorry drove away, up ont' moor.'

Well, that certainly explained how the Audi had disappeared.

'Can you describe the lorry, Miss Brocklehurst?' Agent Richmond asked.

'It were big. That's abou' all I can remember. I'm really sorry bu' I were so scared and I were worried abou' our Arthur. He were in such a state. And I di'n't really see it, apar' from t' inside.'

'What was it like on the inside?' John asked, gently.

'Well, it 'ad a little side door, wi' steps that come out when y' opened t' door and went back in, when y' closed it. And it 'ad another door, at t' front, tha' went into a separate bit but I don't know what tha' were like. I never saw inside. Bu' tha' were where they took Sherlock when 'e said 'e wanted t' talk t' boss man.'

'Right, thank you, Miss Brocklehurst. Now, what about when you got out of the lorry? Did you get to look at it then, perhaps?' the agent asked, hopefully.

'Well, no, not really.' Josie grimaced and began to wring her hands. 'I were so frightened. I really thought they were going to kill us. They dragged us out of t' car and out of t' lorry and they dumped us on t' road. An' t' guard, he were pointing a rifle at us and then t' boss man, he said this were where we had to say goodbye. I though' they were going to shoot us!' She was almost weeping.

'Josie, Josie,' John soothed, putting an arm around her shoulders and taking hold of her hands to still the wringing. 'We understand. It's been a terrible experience and it must have been very hard for you.'

'It were, John! It were so scary. All I could think abou' was tha' we would never see our mum or our sister agen and they would never see us agen. And Arthur just di'n't seem to understand what were happening and he would never ge' married and live 'appily ever after wi' 'is 'usband and their children. And he loves those children so much! You can tell, when he talks about them.' Josie was getting more and more upset, despite John's best efforts to comfort her.

'I can't remember owt about t' lorry. I'm sorry,' she wailed, as the tears began to cascade down her cheeks.

A nurse came into the cubicle, concerned at the rising tone of hysteria in Josie's voice, pushed past Agent Richmond and glared at Dr Watson. She put a comforting hand on Josie's arm and said to the two men,

'This young woman is my patient and you are making her condition worse. No more questions. Go back to the Waiting Area!'

'Nurse…Samantha,' John said, in an attempt at conciliation, reading the nurse's name from her badge. 'I am a Trauma doctor, myself, so I appreciate and respect your concern for your patient but there is a third hostage who has not been released and his life may depend on information that Miss Brocklehurst may be able to give us.'

The nurse still glared at him but her attitude softened, slightly.

'Go back to the Waiting Area, doctor. I will assess my patient and see if she is well enough to continue answering your questions.'

John could see that Nurse Samantha had conceded as much ground as she was likely to, so he and Agent Richmond retreated to the Waiting Area and bought themselves a coffee from the machine, to help keep them alert, as the night wore on.

ooOoo

Arthur was dozing, in a darkened room. Well, sort of dozing. He was actually listening to the voices inside his head. The one that had been screaming had now died down to a low mutter but it was still telling him not to trust anyone and that he had been well and truly stitched up by the man he had grown to love with all his heart. The quiet voice continued to warn him not to listen to the other voice but to trust his own instincts. He had more or less decided to ignore them both.

He knew he was in hospital – a proper modern, working hospital, this time, not an outmoded, defunct one. He could hear the steady beep-beep of the heart monitor and he knew that it was his pulse making it do that.

He remembered being put in an ambulance and brought here by paramedics and then being treated by doctors and nurses. Everyone had been really kind to him. No one had hit him with a sjambok or quoted the Bible at him, or made him drink something that made him heave his guts up until his throat burned.

No one had made him watch porn videos of his partner cheating on him with his staff, or sexually abusing his own brother. God, that hurt the most! That was worse than all the other stuff put together. He felt that hollowness in his chest, again, where his heart used to be. He wondered if the pain would ever go away.

ooOoo

'We've put him on a warm saline drip, to help raise his core temperature, and he has a couple of infrared lamps, too,' the Trauma doctor explained, as he led Mycroft to the ICU. 'We haven't used any sort of drug therapy at all. We decided his body has enough to cope with, metabolizing the drugs he already has in his system, without adding to that.

They arrived at the door to Arthur's room.

'As I say, don't be surprised if he doesn't respond to you. He might not even recognise you,' the doctor warned. Mycroft acknowledged the warning with a nod, opened the door and stepped inside.

He approached the bed, quietly, his throat constricting at the sight of Arthur, looking pale and fragile, despite the red light of the heat lamps, with the saline drip feeding into the cannula in the back of his hand and the heart monitor clipped to his index finger causing the machine to emit that regular beeping sound. He reached out and placed a hand on Arthur's crown, stroking his forehead, gently, with his thumb, then bent to place a tender kiss on the other man's temple.

Arthur felt a soothing touch on the top of his head, as someone rubbed his forehead, then pressed their soft lips just beside his eye. He smelt a familiar cologne, a finely tuned aroma with just the right balance of top and bass notes, and it inspired in him feelings of warmth and security. He turned his head toward the scent and raised his hand, which was instantly taken in a firm**, **cool grip that enhanced his sense of well-being still further.

He cracked open his eyelids and blinked as the blurred face of his comforter resolved into a sharper image – then he froze, before pulling his hand out of Mycroft's grasp, reaching up and pushing the other man's hand away from his head.

'Why are you here?' he mumbled, turning away and closing his eyes.

Mycroft dropped his hands to his side and took a sharp intake of breath before answering.

'I needed to see you…to see how you were.'

He paused, not sure how to proceed. He wanted to take Arthur into his arms and hold him, tell him how much he loved him and how afraid he had been that he might never see him alive again. But Arthur's whole demeanour made it clear that he would not welcome any of that.

'Well, you've seen me. I'm alive,' Arthur mumbled some more. 'You can go, now. No need to concern yourself any further.'

'Arthur,' Mycroft tried again, 'I don't know exactly what you've had to endure but I do have an idea and I cannot begin to tell you how sorry I am that you had to go through that. But I promise you that I will do everything in my power to bring to justice the perpetrators of this heinous crime against you.'

He twisted his fingers together, to restrain himself from grabbing Arthur by the shoulders and pulling him to his chest. Instead, he stood by the bedside and waited, mentally willing this man to look back at him, reach for his hand, speak his name. Arthur did none of those things.

'My love, I can understand your anger. I could have protected you better. I should have anticipated that something like this might happen.'

'Oh, God, Mycroft, it's always about you, isn't it? Listen to yourself. 'I could have done this, I should have anticipated that.' You really are something else.'

Then Arthur did look back at him but the anger, pain and hurt in those eyes cut Mycroft to the quick.

'Don't you understand? It's not what you didn't do, it's what you did do that is the problem,' he growled.

Mycroft licked his lips, which were dry like his mouth, as he tried to imagine what Arthur could be referring to. He feared that to ask would only make matters worse. And to deny any wrongdoing would be worse still. But he had to say something.

'Whatever I have done that has hurt you, I apologise unreservedly and I will do everything I possibly can to make it up to you,' he stammered.

'Some things can_ never _be forgiven, Mycroft. Some things are _beyond_ forgiveness.'

'Then, tell me, please, what unforgiveable thing I have done. At least let me know what my crime is,' he begged, throwing caution to the wind in the face of Arthur's hostility.

'Oh, Mycroft, just leave me alone. Go back to your harem. I won't be your concubine any more,' Arthur groaned, and rolled over, turning his back on the man he had promised himself to, curling into a ball, to shut out the world and allow himself to give in to the grief he felt for his lost love.

Mycroft was shocked to the core by Arthur's harsh words but affected far more by the sight of his lover's body shaking with the wracking sobs he was unable to contain any longer. He was seized by a desperate urge to confront Arthur and demand he explain what he meant by this bizarre statement.

He stood, vacillating, by the bedside for a long moment but his pragmatic side won the day. To press Arthur for answers would only drive him further away. The answers could be found elsewhere and he was determined to find them. He turned to leave the room and had almost reached the door when Arthur suddenly sat up and said, chillingly,

'I should have known it was too good to be true. Why would a man like you be remotely interested in a man like me? I should have realised there had to be a catch.'

Mycroft turned back and opened his mouth to speak but Arthur had curled up again, shutting him out, so he left and returned to the Family Room, where Anthea was shocked to see his bottled up but ill-concealed distress.

'We need to speak to the prisoners they took tonight. And find out if any DVD's were discovered at the scene. I want to know what was on them.'

ooOoo


	34. Stolen Chapter Thirty Three

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Thirty Three**

Sherlock had been 'listening' to Moran rabbit on for the better part of two hours, though his interest had waned sharply once the man had explained how he managed to survive the booby-trapped restaurant, and the Consulting Detective had largely filtered him out, after that. He was unsurprised to learn that the occasional 'Ah' and 'Oh, really?' was all Moran required from a conversation partner. The man had an ego the size of Jupiter.

It was through a combination of good luck and good management that Moriarty's little pet had escaped death in the explosion. Sherlock was disappointed to learn that Moran had known he was being monitored and had taken the precaution of employing a doppelganger to lead Mycroft's men astray, thus freeing up the real target to conduct his nefarious business deals, unobserved.

On the night in question, Moran had entered the restaurant by the back door a good half hour earlier and was actually in the kitchen, talking to the chef about his choice of steak, when his look-alike entered through the front door and the explosive devices were detonated. Consequently, the mark had been shielded from the worst of the blast by the open door of the walk-in freezer. The chef, who had been standing back a couple of feet, was not so fortunate.

Moran's men, guarding the rear entrance, had charged in and dragged him out – badly injured but far from dead – and whisked him away to a safe haven, to be treated and nursed back to full health. He had then begun his gradual rise back to the top of the Bad Boys' League, driven on by a burning desire to wreak his revenge on Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock was pleased to learn, however, that Moran was ignorant, at that time, of the fact that he had survived his leap from the roof of St Bart's and was still not aware, even now, that the drug cartel representative, Lars Sigerson, was actually Sherlock in disguise.

This was most gratifying, particularly as the two men had met on several occasions, but also because it meant that Sigerson was still a viable alter ego and could be used again. Sherlock was rather fond of the Swede, whom he thought of as a completely separate person, although he wasn't overly keen on having to wear the prosthetic teeth. But the good thing was, the longer he wore them, the easier it got, to the point where it felt odd not to be wearing them, after a while.

'Here we are,' Moran announced, as the horse box made a sharp right turn and began to rock and sway, as though travelling on uneven ground – which it was. The box made slow progress along the rutted unmade lane for about five minutes then turned right again and lurched to a halt, air brakes hissing, as the engine cut out.

Moran got up from his chair and invited Sherlock to precede him through the Groom's Door into the back of the box. The driver and his mate were already lowering the ramp, as Robinson started up the Audi and began to reverse it out into the cool country air. Sherlock breathed in through his nose and discerned the unmistakeable aroma of horse manure. They were obviously at a stable.

Moran strode down the ramp, after the Audi, and Sherlock followed him.

'Welcome to Middleham, Mr Holmes, childhood home of King Richard III. The castle is just down the road. And this is my latest venture, or cover story, if you prefer. I'm a sleeping partner, you understand, but I own the yard and my business associate holds the licence.'

Looking around, Sherlock could see the logic in all this. Where better to hide a luxury horsebox than – a racing yard. And, when it wasn't being put to use as a getaway vehicle for the erstwhile boss of a terror organisation, it could be used to ferry horses to and from race meetings. A perfect cover.

And Middleham, North Yorkshire, was sufficiently removed from the main urban centres, it was the last place one might look for a terror cell, but the A1(M) was just a few miles to the east, providing excellent road links to London and elsewhere. Sherlock could not help but feel a certain amount of respect for Moran's prowess as a strategist.

'The house is over here, Mr Holmes. Come this way,' his host invited and Sherlock accepted the invitation.

ooOoo

As Mycroft and Anthea passed through the Treatment Area, he stopped outside the curtained cubicle, where Josie was still under observation, accompanied only by the WPC, now. Anthea continued on and out to the Waiting Area, to communicate with the Lead Agent, on the ground at the crime scene.

Josie looked up as Mycroft drew the curtain aside and asked if he could come in.

'The nurse said no more questions,' the WPC piped up.

'It's a'right,' Josie assured her. ''E's family.'

'Oh, OK. I'll wait outside, then, shall I?' the police woman offered and, when Josie nodded, she left. She needed to use the toilet, anyway, so she was glad of the break.

Mycroft drew a chair up to the treatment couch and sat down, passing his hand over his receding hair line, blinking his tired eyes.

''Ow is 'e?' Josie asked, after a few moments, when Mycroft showed no sign of beginning the conversation.

'I really couldn't say,' Mycroft admitted. 'He won't converse with me. His captors have told him something, I believe, something about me. I have no idea what that might be but, whatever it is, it has upset him, dreadfully.'

Josie wasn't sure how to behave in the presence of this rather austere man. He wasn't at all as she had imagined him to be, from Arthur's descriptions. But, she reasoned, she was not seeing him at his best. He was obviously very concerned for Arthur but he was trying to maintain a professional demeanour, since he seemed to be in charge of the operation to find the kidnappers, who were still holding his brother.

Josie's heart went out to the man in the three piece suit and very expensive-looking shoes. She reached over and put a hand on his arm.

'Those men 'ave bin messin' wi' 'is 'ead,' she declared, repeating what she had said to the doctor. ''E were funny wi' Sherlock, too. The man in charge – Moran, is it? – I ge' the idea 'e 'as a grudge against you. Is tha' right?'

Mycroft rested his eyes on the young woman who resembled Arthur so much, and also had some of his mannerisms and the same easy way of speaking, that was most disarming, and he nodded.

'Yes, my dear, Moran bears a very serious and long-standing grudge toward me. That is why he took Arthur, to use against me, in some way.'

'Then it's obvious, isn't it? They've told 'im some 'orrendous lie an', because 'e's not 'imself, 'e's believed 'em, 'asn't 'e?'

'That is my opinion, too,' Mycroft agreed. 'When I went to see him, he referred to my 'harem' and said he wasn't my concubine any more.'

'Then they've told 'im you've cheated on 'im – and more than once, if 'e thinks you 'ave an 'arem. You 'aven't, though, 'ave you?' she asked, earnestly.

Mycroft looked at her concerned expression and had to admire her direct manner. These Northern folk certainly did not mince their words, he mused.

'No, I assure you that I have not cheated on him. I am strictly monogamous, always have been. Managing one relationship is complicated enough. I could never entertain more than one at a time and not even that for a very long time before I met your brother.'

'Good. I'm glad to 'ear it because my brother loves you to death. You do know tha', don't you?'

'I did. Now? I'm afraid I'm not so sure.'

'Well, I'm telling ya this, that if you are being straight wi' me, once Arthur gets 'is sense back, 'e'll realise that they lied to 'im and 'e'll be really sorry he ever doubted you.'

'He said something odd about Sherlock, too, according to John Watson. He told him he was contaminated and corrupted. I cannot imagine to what that might refer.'

'God, me neither! I mean, after wha' Sherlock did for us, me and our Arthur? 'E sacrificed 'imself to save us – and 'im wi' a wife and kiddies at 'ome, too. If anythin' 'appens to 'im, Mr Holmes, I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive meself.'

She was getting tearful, again, and this time it was Mycroft's turn to offer the comforting hand.

'Please, do not concern yourself about Sherlock. He is not as defenceless as he may sometimes appear. He has been in some very tight spots in the past and managed to wriggle out of them. He can be very tricky.'

'Yes, I can believe tha'. 'Is wife is a very lucky lady.'

This last statement sounded more than a little wistful, which Josie realized, all too late, and blushed a rather fetching pink.

Mycroft pretended not to notice either phenomenon and simply smiled and said,

'I have had your family taken to a safe house, to be looked after until we have resolved this matter. When you are well enough to leave here, I will have you taken to be with them. I'm sure they will be relieved to see you safe and sound.'

'And wha' abou' Arthur?'

'I would like him to go to a specialist clinic, St Hugh's, where he used to work. They have a great deal of expertise in treating people who have had experiences similar to his. He would be in the best possible hands. But I rather suspect he would be somewhat resistant to acting upon my recommendation, at the moment.'

'Then I will insist that 'e goes there. And Rosie will, too. And, believe me, Arthur knows better than to try and go against me and Rosie. We've been bossin' 'im about, all 'is life!'

Mycroft could well believe that. He wasn't sure he would relish going against the Brocklehurst girls, either.

He rose to leave, nodding his goodbye, and was almost out of the cubicle when Josie exclaimed,

'It were two colours, one light and one dark, and there were little windows, all the way down t' side!'

Mycroft turned back, with a questioning look.

'What was that, my dear?'

'The lorry, Mr 'Olmes! The lorry that they drove t' car into!'

Mycroft had no idea what she was talking about but he assumed that Richmond and Watson would.

'Thank you. That is most helpful,' he replied. 'And, please, call me Mycroft. We are, after all, family.'

As he walked away, he hoped with all his heart that this was still true.

ooOoo

Sherlock was shown to a very well-appointed en suite bedroom in the stone-built house and his host bid him goodnight. He was being treated like an honoured guest but he knew he was really a prisoner. The man with the gun standing outside the door was proof of that, if any proof were needed.

He walked to the heavily curtained window and gazed out at the moonlit scene, deep in thought. He still had no idea what Moran had intended to do with Arthur or what the man had in mind for himself but he was under no illusion as to the colonel's ultimate goal. He would not have brought a hostage here, to his secret hideaway, if he had any plans to let them leave alive.

He thought about Molly and the children, hundreds of miles away in Hertfordshire. He wished he had included a message for his wife, when he texted Mycroft. 'Sorry' would have been the most appropriate. But, at the time, he could not afford to even think about them, for fear it might have weakened his resolve.

_Thus conscience does make cowards of us all_, he thought.

So the game of mental chess would continue and only one of the players would walk away. He was determined that would be him.

ooOoo


	35. Stolen Chapter Thirty Four

**Sorry this update has been a while coming. I had guests - my nephews - who are lovely but very time-consuming!**

**No triggers on this chapter.**

**Chapter Thrity Four**

When Mycroft returned to the Waiting Area, Anthea, Richmond and John Watson rose to greet him.

'Josie has recalled some details about a lorry?' he remarked, with a rising interrogative.

'Yes, sir. Apparently, they drove the Audi into a lorry, to conceal it,' Agent Richmond confirmed.

'Yes, alright, well, she says that it was two colours, one light and one dark and that it had small windows all down the side,' he reported.

'Windows? What sort of a lorry has windows?' John questioned. 'Does she mean a bus?'

'What sort of a bus has a ramp?' Richmond countered.

'Well, whatever the vehicle was, be it a lorry or a bus, it gives us something more to go on. Anthea?' Mycroft turned to his PA for an update.

'Sir, the crime scene is still being processed. Agent Monroe believes it will take all night. The prisoners that were taken are being held at RAF Leeming tonight and will be transferred to London tomorrow, for interrogation. In the meantime, Dr Watson has reserved rooms for us at the Railway Hotel, where he and your brother had intended to stay. Can I suggest we adjourn for tonight?'

'Yes, my dear, I think that would be a wise move. Richmond, would you be so kind as to take us to this hotel and then join your colleague back at the scene?'

Richmond nodded and they all left the hospital.

John Watson was curious to know what, if anything, Arthur had had to say but Mycroft was not forthcoming so he did not pursue it. He did ask, however,

'Has anyone thought to tell Molly the latest developments?'

'Yes, John, I did think about it but I decided that tomorrow morning would be soon enough to drop that particular bombshell. I'm sure she will be delighted to hear that Arthur and his sister are safe but I doubt that will compensate for the fact that Sherlock traded himself for them.'

John thought that was probably true.

ooOoo

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of horses' hooves clattering on the roadway, outside the house. And not just one or two horses, either. It sounded like a whole brigade. He rolled out of bed and crossed to the window, drawing back the curtain, just a little, to peek outside.

At the end of the garden, on the other side of a low hedge, he could see about twenty horses, all in single file, walking by. They each wore a two-tone fly sheet, in sky and royal blue, with the initials WB appliqued in one corner, and the riders all wore matching jackets, in the same two colours, and dark blue jodhpurs. The silks on all their riding helmets were also sky and royal blue.

This was a much more up-market enterprise than the one belonging to George Bridges, where the detective had been 'unavoidably detained' on the night that Violet was born. Thinking of Violet was a distraction he could ill afford, at the moment, so he shut that door in his Mind Palace, very firmly, and scanned the surrounding area visible from his bedroom window, making a mental note of all its features for future reference.

He heard a sharp knock at the door to his room and then the door opening. He looked round to see one of Moran's men, now dressed in civilian garb of slacks and a buttoned shirt, bringing in a tea tray and placing it on the bedside table.

'The colonel says he will see you in the breakfast room in half an hour,' the man informed him, not even batting an eye at the guest's nakedness. But, if this were an all-male household, as Sherlock strongly suspected, barrack room law probably held sway and they would all shower and sleep in communal facilities. It would be, he imagined, a bit like boarding school.

The foot soldier cum footman withdrew and closed the door – not locked, Sherlock noted, but the guard outside rather over-rode the need for a lock. The detective crossed back to the bed and poured himself a morning cup of tea, then carried the cup and saucer through to the bathroom.

He had seen, the night before, that the bathroom was well-stocked with a range of quality men's toiletries, which he had inspected, closely. He sat on the toilet seat, sipping his tea, pensively, waiting for the bath to run, adding a generous dollop of bath essence to the steaming water. He might as well, he concluded, take full advantage of the facilities while he was detained here.

After his bath, he redressed in yesterday's clothes. He was not a fan of two day shirts, or two day boxers and socks either, for that matter, and he thought, wistfully, of his crisp, freshly laundered clothes still packed inside his valise, in his room at the Railway Hotel. If he was going to be here for any length of time, he would need to send for those, he concluded.

Once dressed, he opened the bedroom door and preceded his over-night guard down stairs to the breakfast room.

'Good morning, Mr Holmes. I trust you slept well? We are early risers, here. I'm pleased to see you are, too.'

'Not usually,' he lied. With three young children in the family, lie-ins were a fond and distant memory but he saw no reason to agree with everything Moran said, just on principal.

'What do you have planned for me, today?' he asked, helping himself to a cup of black coffee and a slice of wholemeal toast, which he spread liberally with butter and blackcurrant jam.

'I have a Skype session scheduled for you, Mr Holmes, so that you might reassure yourself that your friend and his sister are both well.'

'As well as can be expected,' Sherlock corrected, sardonically, 'under the circumstances.'

'I trust you have a number for Mr and Miss Brocklehurst,' Moran remarked.

'One does not use a number to Skype, Colonel, but a username. I have one for my brother.'

Moran's eyebrows rose in surprise.

'Well, I never would have thought of Mycroft as a Silver Surfer,' he chortled.

'Hardly silver. He's in his mid-forties. He may behave old beyond his years but he is barely middle aged. And, for your information, his children use Skype far more often than he does but they are too young to have their own user names.'

'Meanwhile,' he added, looking at his watch, 'time is pressing. Let's get on with this, shall we? Give me my phone.' He held out his hand.

'No, Mr Holmes, that's not how this works. I know that the location of a phone can be traced - you used that trick, already. Your phone has been…dealt with.'

Sherlock shrugged.

'Alright, colonel, how _does_ this work?'

'After breakfast, you will email your brother from my laptop and schedule the conversation between you and the other two. You will give him the time and he will make sure they are there. At the appointed time, you will call him and speak to them and then you and I will do business.'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.

'Ah, in case you're thinking that the origin of an email can be traced, too, I can assure you that my laptop has software installed that makes all communications anonymous. That includes emails and browsing history. I'm invisible on the Internet.'

Sherlock shrugged again. Once more, Moran had out-thought him. Perhaps he had underestimated the man. He would have to up his game.

ooOoo

'He did what?' Molly croaked, clutching at her heart.

'I am so sorry, Molly. I know this is not the news you were hoping for. And I do understand how you must feel,' said Mycroft, regretfully.

'Oh, Mycroft, don't feel guilty. Of course, I am relieved that Arthur and his sister of safe and, obviously, if anyone can talk their way out of this situation, it's Sherlock, but…Oh, God, you know what I mean.'

'I do, Molly. And, if it's any consolation, I am almost as angry with him as you are.'

Mycroft felt it politic not to add that Sherlock and John had been specifically advised not to go to the hospital but to leave it to the Special Ops assault team. He was relatively certain that this whole matter could have been resolved satisfactorily without his brother's intervention. And he would most definitely be having that conversation with him, the very next time they spoke.

Neither did he mention the email he had received, just minutes before, requesting a Skype conversation with the other two hostages. That would be his next priority, once he finished breaking the bad news about Sherlock's current situation to his wife.

The email had been untraceable but there could be no doubt it was from Sherlock. He had gone to great pains to make that clear.

_I request a Skype face to face with Arthur and Josie, at 10.00 BST, to verify well-being before fulfilling my side of the bargain. There's a Headless Nun in it for me._

The 'Headless Nun' code word meant that he had a plan. Mycroft was hoping that this would be an exit strategy but one could never be certain, where Sherlock was concerned. He rarely thought about how he would get out of situations – only how to get into them. He had always been the same, his entire life.

Mycroft despaired, sometimes, at his brother's lack of forethought, even though he felt an enormous debt of gratitude for the safe return of Arthur. Such mixed emotions were hard to deal with so he suppressed them and turned his attention to the task in hand.

'Anthea, you will go to the crime scene and liaise with Agents Richmond and Monroe,' he instructed his PA, who left to do his bidding.

'John, I'd like you to come with me. I believe Arthur will be more co-operative with you, under the present circumstances, so you will take my phone into the ICU and persuade him to speak to Sherlock, to verify that he is being well looked after. I'm sure Josie will assist with that task. I will wait elsewhere.'

John nodded his agreement. He would try to communicate with Sherlock, too, or, at the very least, get an idea of his circumstances. The use of the term BST, when scheduling the Skype session, inferred that Sherlock was no longer in the UK but one could never be sure exactly who Sherlock was trying to confound. John hoped that his friend might, somehow, be able to give him a clue as to his whereabouts.

He and Mycroft took a cab to the Tameside Hospital and were directed, first, to the ward where Josie had been admitted for observation, the night before. She was looking a lot better than she had when they last saw her. A few hours' sleep, a shower and a good breakfast had helped with that. When Mycroft explained what Sherlock had suggested, Josie was very willing to co-operate and she volunteered, without being asked, to persuade Arthur to do his bit, too.

With the Ward Sister's permission, John and Mycroft accompanied Josie to the ICU and here Mycroft parted company with them, resignedly, and took himself off to the Family Room, to wait alone. John pushed Josie, in the hospital wheelchair, into Arthur's room, finding him awake and no longer surrounded by heat lamps. The saline drip was gone - though the cannula remained - and the heart monitor had been disconnected.

When his sister entered the room, Arthur held out his hand to her and she took it, giving it a squeeze.

'You're looking much better, lovie. 'Ow are you feelin'?' Josie asked, brushing a stray curl off his forehead with her free hand.

'Better, I think,' Arthur replied, still sounding weak and light-headed. 'And you? What's wrong with you?' he asked.

'We can talk about that, later,' Josie replied, glancing at the ex-Army doctor. 'You remember John, don't you?' she asked.

'Yes, of course,' he replied, offering a rather wavering left hand for John to shake, since Josie refused to relinquish the other one. 'John, what are you doing here?' He didn't seem to remember seeing John the night before, at the Psychiatric Hospital, or that Josie had been there, either.

John wondered whether he would remember seeing Sherlock, at all.

'I'm on a bit of a mission, actually,' he replied.

'Really, what could that be?' Arthur asked, looking confused.

John walked round to the other side of the bed and drew up a chair.

'Arthur, how much do you remember about the last few days?' he asked, cautiously.

The patient rubbed his brow, thoughtfully, before replying,

'I remember pretty much everything up to last night but then it gets a bit hazy. Is there something important you need to know?'

'Do you remember seeing me at the psychiatric hospital?'

Arthur shook his head.

'What about Sherlock? Do you remember seeing him?'

Arthur's brow furrowed, as though that did ring a distant bell.

'Was he really there? I thought I…dreamed that or was having hallucinations, or…something.'

'No, we were both there. It was Sherlock who figured out where you were and who had taken you…well, someone who was involved, at least.'

'Oh, that was clever of him,' Arthur murmured 'but then, he is clever.'

'Sherlock allowed himself to be taken hostage, Arthur, along with you and Josie.'

'Josie?' Arthur gasped, looking alarmed. 'How did you get mixed up in this?'

'I'll explain everything, later, sweet. Just listen to John, for now,' Josie soothed.

'He let himself be taken so that he could negotiate for you and Josie to be released,' John explained. 'And it obviously worked because here you are.'

Arthur nodded his understanding of that simple truth.

'But where is Sherlock, now?' he asked.

'Well, he's still being held. We don't know where. But Mycroft got an email from him this morning…'

At the mention of Mycroft's name, Arthur's face clouded over and he seemed to retreat into himself. Josie patted the hand she was still clinging on to and made shushing noises, as though to a child.

'Are you OK, Arthur?' John asked.

'Yes,' he replied, sounding a little hoarse. 'What did the email say?'

'It said that Sherlock wants to speak to you and Josie on Skype, at ten o'clock, today, which is in about half an hour. This is part of the deal he made with the kidnappers. He needs to see that you and Josie are OK before he does whatever it is that he offered to do so that you and Josie would be released. Are you still following all this?' John asked, because Arthur looked confused again.

'Yes, I understand what you are saying. That was a very…brave thing to do, that.'

'Yes, very brave,' John had to agree. 'So, Arthur, will you speak to him, on Skype, when he calls?'

'Of course,' the other man replied. 'Why wouldn't I, after what he's done? And none of this is his fault. He's just as much a victim as I am…as we are,' he amended, looking at his sister.

'Oh, well done, Arthur,' Josie exclaimed, leaning over to kiss her brother on the cheek. She then went on to explain how she had come to be taken hostage as well and John left the room to go and assure Mycroft that the Skype session would go ahead without a hitch.

'He doesn't remember what he said to Sherlock but he certainly seems to have an issue with you,' John commented to the elder Holmes.

'Well, I'm sure we will discover what that is, in the fullness of time,' Mycroft replied, curtly. 'You'd better get back in there, in case he calls early,' he advised, so John left him, alone again, wondering what dreadful untruth Arthur had been fed by his captors, along with all the mind altering drugs.

ooOoo

'What does that mean?' Moran asked, pointing at the phrase,

_There's a Headless Nun in it for me._

'It's a private thing, between me and my brother,' Sherlock replied. 'It's just so that he knows it's really me sending this email, since it is anonymous. He won't act on it if he doesn't know it's really from me.'

'How do I know it's not some secret code?' Moran demanded.

'Well, obviously, it is a secret code,' Sherlock retorted, with a dramatic eye roll.

Moran looked at him, askance.

'Oh, for God's sake,' Sherlock huffed, still playing the role of the spoiled aristocrat to a tee. 'If you must know, when we were children, if I was really good and didn't piss him off too much, he would read me the story of the Headless Nun. It was my favourite story. He used to say to me, 'If you behave yourself, there's a Headless Nun in it for you.' See?'

Moran was not sure whether or not to believe this explanation but he could see the logic of having to prove to the other Holmes that this really was his brother sending the email.

'Alright, I will allow it but, if I find out you've been lying to me, you will pay a price for your deception.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and went to press 'Send' on the laptop.

'Wait!' Moran barked.

'Oh, what now?' Sherlock grumbled.

'10.00 BST? Why BST?'

'It will make think that I'm no longer in the UK,' he explained, grudgingly, with an implied 'Duh!'.

'Oh,' Moran acknowledged.

'You really were Moriarty's equivalent of John Watson, weren't you?' Sherlock huffed.

'Yes, I was his Right Hand Man,' Moran replied, with a hint of pride.

'Well, a rather ambiguous statement but I'll let that pass. No, I rather meant that you are good in a fight but not much going on between the ears,'

Sherlock pressed 'Send', before Moran could respond to that insult, then turned to his host with a bored scowl.

Moran gritted his teeth and clenched his fists but kept his anger under control. Turning to the guard, standing by the door, he growled,

'Take our guest back to his room.'

The mufti foot soldier took Sherlock roughly by the arm and frog-marched him back to his bedroom, opening the door and pushing him inside, then closed the door and stood outside, with his arms folded across his chest.

Left alone, Sherlock walked to the window and scanned the view, again. There was no visible evidence of security or surveillance but he was pretty sure that there would be pressure pads in the ground and movement sensor lights and cameras covering the immediate area around the house. Escape from here would not be straight-forward or easy.

He had rather enjoyed winding up Moran, with his snide comments, but did feel moderately guilty for maligning John Watson's mental acuity. However, it had been in a good cause, as there was method in his madness. In the first instance, it would convince Moran still further that he had no sense of loyalty to anyone but, also, a decision made whilst in an emotional state was invariably a bad decision, in his experience. In his not so humble opinion, the more he goaded his host, the more likely he was to make a mistake and Sherlock would be ready to exploit it.

ooOoo


	36. Stolen Chapter Thirty Five

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Thirty Five**

At the appointed time, Sherlock was brought back into Moran's study and instructed to sit at the desk, in front of the laptop, with his back to a blank wall, the intention being not to give away any clues about the location.

'Now, remember, Mr Holmes, if you say anything untoward, I will end the session, immediately. Don't even imagine you can give them any clues as to where you are.'

'Why would I want to? Remember, I volunteered for this. No one forced me to do it!' Sherlock retorted, peevishly.

Moran stood to one side, from where he could see the screen but not be picked up by the laptop camera. Sherlock's ever-present guard stood behind the laptop screen, with his arms folded, looking detached and disinterested but ready to react, should Sherlock say or do anything ill-advised.

The consulting detective opened the Skype program and keyed in Mycroft's username, then waited for the connection to go through and for the screen to become live. When it did, it was John Watson's face that greeted him.

'Oh, John,' Sherlock drawled. 'Did you escape or were you sprung?'

'A little of both,' the doctor replied, noting his friend's mocking tone but guessing that this was all part of his cover story. 'How are they treating you?' he asked, genuinely concerned about the deadly game that Sherlock was playing.

'Like an honoured guest,' the detective answered, with a smug smile. 'I could get used to this level of comfort. It's certainly better than I've had to become accustomed to. But, enough of the small talk. Can we get on?'

'Of course,' John replied, curtly, showing his annoyance at Sherlock's dismissive attitude. He handed the mobile phone to Josie, who was perched on the edge of her brother's hospital bed, having operated the recliner mechanism to elevate the patient's upper body. She held out the phone so that both of the Brocklehursts were visible on the laptop screen.

'Josie, how nice to see you again,' Sherlock said, with genuine warmth. 'None the worse for your ordeal, I hope?'

'I'll be fine, Sherlock, thanks t' you. I can't thank you enough,' she replied, sincerely.

He waved his hand, dismissively.

'Oh, think nothing of it. I was doing myself a favour, actually. And, after all, it was my fault that you got involved in the first place. I should never have agreed to you coming along but John Watson's objection was too tempting to resist. He is such a bloody dinosaur. The concept of Feminism is lost on him.'

Josie glanced at John, feeling uncomfortable – even more so when she saw the hurt in the doctor's eyes.

'And, Arthur, what about you? You certainly look brighter than when I saw you last.'

'I'm OK, Sherlock, really. But listen, mate, I want you to know that I don't blame you for any of this. It's really not your fault.'

He seemed to be struggling to find the right words but he was determined to have his say, as he took the phone from his sister's hand and held it up to his face.

'Sherlock, I had no idea, mate, honestly. But I understand, now. I do understand the reason for all the acrimony between you and…him. If I had only known, I would have done something about it sooner. But I am going to do something now, as soon as I get out of this place. I want you to know that I'm sorry to involve you in this but I don't have any choice. I hope you'll forgive me.'

Arthur looked so sincere, as he made his declaration, and, when his voice cracked on the final sentence, Sherlock felt his growing sense of unease ratchet up a good few notches but he had to maintain his persona so he replied,

'I'm quite sure, Arthur, that whatever terrible thing you feel you have to do can't possibly be as bad as the things I've had to put up with for all these years so don't trouble yourself, old boy. Whatever you have to do, you get on with it.'

Sherlock smiled that irritating grin that he reserved for pissing people off and watched as the phone was suddenly removed from Arthur's hand and John Watson's face took up the screen space again.

'Sherlock, I don't know what you're up to but, whatever it is, you know who you're dealing with and that you can't trust him…'

'Oh, blah-blah-blah, John. Have I ever told you how boring and repetitive you can be? Honestly, you're worse than my mother! God! I think you _are_ my mother, reincarnate! Look, it's been…interesting but this is the end of the road for me and you. I just have to do a little favour for my new friend and then he's promised to show me some really interesting Vatican Cameos. You know how much I love th…'

The connection was abruptly cut, as Moran snapped the laptop shut and grabbed Sherlock by his jacket lapel.

'That was a code, wasn't it? Do you think I'm an idiot?'

Sherlock looked up into the colonel's angry red face and said, as coldly as he could muster,

'If you persist in behaving like an idiot, one can hardly blame me for responding accordingly.'

The guard had come round the desk and now took hold of Sherlock by both his arms, from behind his chair, forcing him forward, from the waist, over the keyboard.

'What does Vatican Cameos mean?' Moran hissed, practically breathing fire.

'Where is the Vatican, Colonel Moran?' Sherlock replied, a little breathlessly, due to the constriction of his chest.

'In Rome,' the Colonel replied, cautiously, still suspicious of Sherlock's motives.

'Precisely. And where is Rome?'

'In Italy, of course,' the other man spluttered, beginning to feel rather over-exposed, especially in the presence of his underling.

'Do I need to draw a picture, or can you join the dots yourself?' Sherlock grunted.

Moran knit his eyebrows then his mouth formed a silent 'O', as the penny finally dropped.

'You want them to think we're in Rome?'

'Tell your ape to let go of me or the deal is _off!_'' Sherlock snapped and Moran nodded to the guard who released the detective with malicious shove, which almost smashed his face into the keyboard. He sat up straight, shook his arms inside his sleeves and smoothed down his jacket lapels.

'Right, let's get down to business. I'm getting very bored with this game,' he huffed. 'The sooner we do this thing and I'm out of here, the better.'

Moran allowed himself an internal smirk, and nodded his agreement.

ooOoo

'John, are you OK?' Josie gasped, shocked beyond words by Sherlock's bizarre behaviour and by the horrified look on the doctor's face. 'Whatever's t' matter wi' 'im? Why is 'e actin' like tha'? And, Arthur, wha' are you on abou'? Wha' is it you think you 'ave t' do?'

'I don't want to talk about it right now, Josie. Just leave me alone, will you? Please, go away, both of you.'

John Watson looked at Arthur's drawn and haggard face and then turned to his sister.

'Come along, Josie. Arthur needs to rest. He's been through a hell of a lot. Let's leave him in peace for a bit.'

He helped Josie back into the wheelchair, after she had kissed her brother on the cheek – a kiss which he barely acknowledged except with a slight flinch – and wheeled her out of the ICU room.

'John, what does Vatican Cameos mean?' Josie asked, in a voice hollow with foreboding, once they were outside Arthur's room. 'It's a code, i'n't it? That's why they cut the connection, cos they knew it were a code!'

John argued with himself over whether or not to tell her but, in the end, he said,

'It means someone is going to die.'

ooOoo

'Come with me,' Moran ordered his guest, making an effort to be cordial once again, though failing miserably. The Colonel had fulfilled his part of the bargain and now it was the detective's turn to fulfil his. Sherlock could almost taste the other man's sense of desperate urgency. It was as though a timer was ticking, now, and a bomb was primed to explode.

With the guard in tow, Sherlock was led to a smart and tastefully appointed drawing room and shown to a chair. Moran took a second chair and the guard went straight to a flat screen TV, on a stand in the corner of the room, beside a Georgian fireplace. He switched on the set, then picked up a DVD box, opened it and fitted the disc into a slot on the side of the TV. He took the remote control and handed it to Moran, then went to stand by the door.

'Mr Holmes, I want you to watch this DVD very carefully. I think you might find it interesting,' Moran said, by way of an introduction and then pressed 'Play'.

Sherlock sat back in the chair and watched, his expression impassive, as the grainy images of Mycroft and his employees, engaged in various sexual activities, played out in front of him.

ooOoo

'Any clues as to where he might be?' Mycroft asked, after John had given him the gist of the conversation he, Josie and Arthur had just shared with Sherlock.

Josie had been returned to her ward, still suffering the after-effects of Sherlock's vicious comments about John, his closest friend, even though the doctor had assured her that it was all part of an elaborate game that the detective was playing with his captors.

'Well, 'e seemed deadly serious to me,' she declared.

'Oh, he is serious, Josie,' John assured her. 'When he gets into character, he lives and breathes that person. He meant every single word – but only as that character. The real Sherlock will be tucked away, in his Mind Palace, watching his other self, like a proud parent watching their child in the school play.'

'You make 'im sound a bit schizophrenic,' Josie exclaimed.

'Yes, he is a bit,' John had replied.

'None that I could detect, Mycroft, but the Vatican Cameos comment was clear enough. Once he has done what he has agreed to do, they intend to kill him.'

'We must assume that, now he has confirmed that Arthur and Josie are safe, they will expect him to deliver his side of the deal promptly. So we don't have a great deal of time in which to find him.'

'No, although I'm sure he'll find a way to stall them. And, Mycroft, Arthur's comments to Sherlock were very strange, even stranger than last night – though he obviously doesn't remember what he said last night.'

John went on to repeat, as accurately as he could manage, Arthur's weird declaration. Mycroft listened, unaware that he was rubbing his temples, and thus betraying the intense headache that was building behind his eyes.

'We need to concentrate on the two-tone lorry,' he said, as soon as John had finished speaking. 'It's the only lead we have. Miss Brocklehurst is about to be discharged. John, I want you to take her back onto the moor, to where she and Arthur were found – Richmond will drive you there. Take her through the whole experience and the release. She might remember something more.'

John was not comfortable with the idea.

'That's a rather risky strategy, don't you think? I mean, it was a very frightening experience. She may be horribly traumatised by having to relive it.'

Mycroft looked down at him, in full Iceman mode.

'John, if I have to choose between a traumatised sister-in-law and a dead brother, I would take the former option, every time. There are treatments for trauma. Death is rather more intractable.'

ooOoo

**Many thanks for all the favs, follows and reviews, especially to my guest reviewers, who I cannot thank individually. I am thrilled that you are enjoying my story.**


	37. Stolen Chapter Thirty Six

**Sorry this update has taken longer than usual. I had some unfinished business to take care of, last week, but it's all sorted now!**

**No triggers in this chapter.**

**Chapter Thirty Six**

Molly sat in the garden at Colbert House, in the shade of a broad oak tree, nursing a fractious baby and watching the other children play in the paddling pool that Michele, the twins' nanny, had set up and now supervised. Violet, she suspected, might be teething again. She was certainly nipping rather hard, on occasion, and for that reason Molly had resorted back to bottle feeding expressed milk but her mother's intuition told her that Violet's bad mood was more to do with Sherlock's absence than any pain from her gums.

All the children were fractious, especially Charlie, who had not slept through one single night since Arthur went missing and who was now sitting, listlessly, in the paddling pool, not engaging with any of the toys or the other children. He kept looking toward the house, as if hoping that Poppah would suddenly appear and come striding down the path – but it didn't happen and he would turn back to the water, looking lost.

It was heart-breaking for Molly to watch the poor little chap, especially knowing as she did that Arthur was safe and sound, albeit in a compromised state as a result of his experiences. Mycroft had given her a brief account of Arthur's condition and had asked her not to say anything to the children until he had decided what to tell them. So she kept her own counsel and tried to be a comfort to all the children, who each, in their own way, was missing the menfolk.

But in truth, Molly was feeling anything but strong. She felt isolated and lonely, as the only member of the family the children had to turn to. The nannies and all the house staff had been marvellous, so very supportive, but Molly could not confide in them, could not burden them with her own fears and feelings. She suspected that some of Violet's distemper was due to her own low mood. She knew that her forced smiles were not reaching her eyes and Violet would see that, especially in the intimate setting of the nursing situation.

'Mummy, are you alright?'

William's quiet enquiry broke into her thoughts and she looked up to see her eldest son standing right in front of her, wrapped in a fluffy towel, his lips twisting with concern.

'Yes, darling, I'm OK,' she replied, stroking his damp curls back off his forehead. 'I'm just missing Daddy, like you and Freddie and Violet are.'

'I expect Daddy is missing us, too,' William declared, solemnly. 'We must be brave and strong for Daddy while he is being brave and strong for us.'

'Yes, baby, brave and strong. And really kind to Charlie and Katy, who are missing their daddies, too.'

'Lily Wose!'

Freddie's loud exclamation made everyone jump and look up in surprise, as the source of the outburst jumped out of the paddling pool and ran, dripping wet, past Molly and William and on up the path that led to the house. All eyes followed him and then saw what he had spotted first – Mary Watson walking toward them, holding Lily Rose by the hand. Molly stood up and would have run to meet the new arrivals, too, had she not had her arms full of baby.

Freddie threw his arms around Lily Rose and gave her a very wet hug, which she didn't seem to mind at all.

'Tum into da pagglin' poo', Lily Wose! It lubberly!' Freddie crowed and the new arrival looked to her mother for permission to comply.

'Yes, of course you can!' Mary told her daughter, who was already stripping off her shorts and t-shirt, down to the buff, to match all the other children. 'But come and get some sun screen on first,' she added, before the little girl could charge off in the direction of the paddling party.

'Here you are, Lily Rose, I have some here,' Michele called, so the newby ran to the nanny to be smothered in Factor 50.

'Oh, Mary, it is so good to see you!' Molly exclaimed, as she gave her friend a hug of greeting. 'But how...?'

'John called, first thing this morning, told me what had happened and asked me if I could come and be with you,' Mary explained.

'Oh, that was so good of him!' Molly sighed.

'Well, to be fair, it was actually Mycroft's suggestion. He spoke to you this morning, I gather, and thought you sounded as though you might benefit from some peer support – his words, not mine.'

'Dear Mycroft, he must have inherited all the empathy genes. He certainly didn't leave many behind for his little brother… No, that's not fair. I shouldn't have said that.' Molly put her hand to her mouth, as though trying to push those words back in, glancing guiltily, at William, who was taking in every word.

'Anyway, of course, I said yes,' Mary went on. 'I couldn't bear to think of you stuck out here, all on your own with the children. I called in to work and told them I had a family emergency. Well, you are family, Molly! And here we are!'

'Well, I am very grateful to you and John and Mycroft,' Molly asserted.

'How are you coping?' Mary asked, noting the strain lines around her friend's eyes.

'Oh, Mary, I can't even begin to tell you!' Molly replied, fighting to control the emotion in her voice but to no avail.

Mary took her friend's hand and looked on, with sympathy, at the stress piling up behind the dam of her self-control.

'Not in front of the children!' Molly gasped, pushing past and hurrying off toward the house.

Mary looked at Michele, who waved her away, so she hastened after the retreating woman, leaving William standing, forlornly, under the tree. He sat down on the deck lounger that his mother had just vacated and pulled the towel closely around him, hugging himself and wishing that his daddy would come home soon.

ooOoo

As the second segment of video came to a conclusion, Moran paused the image and turned to look at his guest. Sherlock had been silent throughout the show, adopting the classic Holmesian pose, with his hands steepled under his chin. He still made no response so Moran felt the need to prompt him.

'Well, what do you make of that?'

'Sorry? Oh, were you expecting a reaction?' Sherlock exclaimed, looking surprised. 'Well, under normal circumstances, watching my brother have sex with members of his staff would have been excruciatingly embarrassing but, since the videos – excellently produced though they might be – are clearly fake, whoever you got to do them, I can only commend you on their expertise. What are they? CGI? Motion Capture? What?'

'A mixture of both, plus some live action,' Moran confirmed.

'Well, you obviously have access to the best practitioners that the film industry can provide but I can assure you that they would not convince anyone who knows my brother as well as I do. For all his faults – and they are myriad – Mycroft is a consummate professional. He would no sooner engage in any sort of liaison with a colleague or a member of his staff than he would attend a Gay Pride parade dressed in a rainbow mankini.'

'They convinced Arthur.'

'In his drug addled state, after hours of torture and deprivation, yes. But when you release those to the nation's press, I guarantee that the people my brother sets to work on them will have no trouble disproving their authenticity.'

'Well, be that as it may, those snippets were just a teaser trailer. This is the main feature,' Moran grinned, smugly, pressing the 'Play' button again.

ooOoo

'Are you sure you're Ok with this, Josie?' John Watson asked.

Agent Richmond had driven them up onto the moors to the spot on the A635 where Josie and Arthur had been dumped the night before. Before they alighted from the car, John wanted to make sure that the woman sitting beside him was ready for the ordeal ahead.

'I'm fine, John, really. If there's anythin' I can do tha' might lead to Sherlock being found and rescued, I'm grateful for t' chance t' be useful.'

John nodded and smiled, reassuringly, then opened the rear door of the car and climbed out onto the road. Josie did the same, on the other side of the vehicle, and walked to the point where she thought the lorry had stopped and abandoned her and Arthur, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night.

'OK,' John said, putting a comforting hand on the young woman's shoulder. 'Close your eyes and tell to me everything you remember.'

Josie did as she was bidden and searched her memory for a starting point.

'When we left t' 'ospital, we were driven along t' back lanes, north east of the town, until we come t' t' by-pass. We turned right ont' t' duel carriageway bu' we di'n't go very far then we come t' t' lay-by where t' lorry were waitin', wi' t' rear ramp dropped, ready for t' car to drive in. Once we were in t' back of t' lorry, I couldn't tell where we were or which way we were goin'.'

'Sherlock asked to speak t' t' leader. Well, 'e di'n't ask – 'e demanded to speak to tha' Moran bloke. Mick Robinson said no, bu' Sherlock scared 'im into checking wi' t' boss man, told 'im tha' Moran would be angry if 'e di'n't pass on t' message. 'E were obviously right because Mick come back and pretty much dragged Sherlock out o' t' car and frog-marched 'im int' t' separate bit at the front o' the rear section, behind t' cab.'

''E were gone fo' a few minutes – I'm not sure 'ow many, 'cause I weren't really able to judge the time, I were so scared and worried about our Arthur. 'E seemed to be in a really bad way. Then Moran come out and spoke t' Robinson, the lorry stopped an' me 'n' Arthur were dragged out ont' t' road. I thought that were it. I were sure we would be shot and left there, to be found in t' morning, but then Moran and his 'enchmen just got back in t' lorry and it drove away.'

As she related the last part of the story, her voice wavered and she began to tremble, despite John's reassuring hand on her arm.

Employing his best bedside manner, the doctor interjected,

'That's very good, Josie, you're doing really well. Now, take your time. Just think hard and see if you can remember any details, at all, about the lorry.'

John was reminded of the incident, many moons ago now, when Sherlock had taken him by the upper arms and spun him round and round in order to 'maximise his visual memory'. He considered doing this to Josie but since, at the time, it had only succeeded in making him feel very dizzy, he decided against it. He did, however, put his hands on her shoulders and gave her yet another encouraging smile.

Josie closed her eyes again and pictured the scene of the night before, she with her arms wrapped protectively around her little brother, shielding him from the bullets that she fully expected to rip though both their bodies at any moment. She felt the emotion of those minutes and tears came, unbidden, to her eyes, and trickled down her cheeks.

But she ignored the tears, turning instead, as she had just a few hours ago, to watch the lorry draw away, into the deep velvet dark, taking their saviour, Sherlock, with it. She heard its engine roar and smelt the taint of the exhaust gases it left behind, hanging in the fresh moorland air. She could see it in her mind's eye, as clearly as though it were right in front of her.

'It were two colours – light at t' top an' dark at t' bottom,' she murmured, searching the creases and wrinkles of her memory for any stray detail that might be tucked away there. 'It 'ad…letters on t' side. Not a name, two letters…I think they might 'a' bin initials but I can't…yes, the initials WB, on t' side, an' a picture of…an animal of some sort, a…horse? It could have been a horse…yes, it were a gallopin' horse!'

'A two-tone lorry, with windows down the side, a rear ramp and a picture of a horse? That sounds like a horse box to me,' Agent Richmond commented, taking them both by surprise, as they had forgotten he was there at all. 'Especially with the separate compartment in the rear section. That's called a Groom's Hole.'

'Yes!' Josie exclaimed. 'There were a smell of 'orses. I'd forgotten tha' but there were a definite 'orsey smell!'

'Very good, Josie, really, really good,' John enthused. 'Now, if you could just try and remember the licence plate, or even just part of it, that would be a huge help.'

Josie screwed up her eyes and wracked her brain to try and get a licence plate number but all she could see were the retreating red tail lights of the vehicle, disappearing into the night.

'I'm sorry, John' she admitted, eventually, looking defeated. 'I don't remember anything about t' licence number.'

'That's alright, Josie,' he reassured her. 'Knowing Moran, it was probably false anyway.'

He turned back to Richmond, who had just come off the phone, having called Anthea with the additional information about the horse box.

'I'm instructed to take you to the safe house, now, Miss Brocklehurst,' he advised Josie.

'Can you drop me at the psychiatric hospital, on the way?' John asked, and the agent nodded.

ooOoo

'Is my sister still here?' Arthur asked the nurse, who had come in to take another blood sample. They were testing his blood every two hours to monitor the amount of foreign substances still in his system.

'No, love, but your fella is,' the nurse replied. 'E's been sat in t' Family Room all mornin'. Would you like me to fetch 'im for ya?'

Arthur wrinkled his brow for a moment or two but then nodded, rather resignedly. Having finished taking the blood sample, and checked all the patient's vital signs, the nurse left the room.

A few minutes later, the door opened again and Mycroft entered. To the untrained eye, his expression appeared neutral but Arthur could see the apprehension in the other man's eyes.

'The nurse said you wanted to see me,' he said, stopping in the middle of the room, a few feet from the side of the bed.

'Yes, I do,' Arthur replied, his voice detached and cold. 'I need some clothes for when I get out of here. They took all my clothes and my shoes and my watch and my…' he stopped but Mycroft had already noted the absence of the Claddagh ring from the third finger on his right hand.

'I can buy you another ring,' he murmured.

'Just some clothes, please, and some shoes. You know my sizes.'

'Arthur, whatever they have told you, I can assure you that it is not true. I…'

'Don't!' Arthur interrupted him, sharply. 'There's no point denying it, Mycroft. I've seen the evidence. They showed me videos. It was definitely you. I know your body better than I know my own and it was most definitely you. And it was most definitely…them, too.'

'Who?' Mycroft demanded, taking a step forward but stopping when Arthur raised his hand.

'You know who! And I really don't want to talk about it! I just want some clothes.'

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked as though he was about to say something more but, instead, turned on his heels and strode toward the door.

'But I would like to be allowed to see the children. You owe me that at least. I know I'm not their biological father but I love them and they love me and I want to have access.'

Mycroft stopped and turned, looking drawn and pale.

'Of course you can see the children. I would never stop you from seeing them but it really won't come to that. I will prove to you, Arthur, that whatever it is they have told you and no matter how compelling the evidence might have appeared, I have done nothing wrong.'

Arthur could read the sincerity in the other man's face, hear it in his voice and, most of all, sense it in every fibre of his being but he could not deny the evidence of his own eyes. And, even though he longed to reach out to Mycroft, to feel the comfort of his lover's arms around him, to have the overwhelming sense of safety and security he used to associate with that act, the fact of those images would not give way. It stood as an immoveable barrier between them.

'I'm sorry, Mycroft. I can't believe you. I wish I could but I have seen things that make me doubt that I ever really knew you, at all. I never would have imagined that the man I loved could be capable of such…degenerate acts…' His voice cracked and he said no more, just shook his head then turned away.

'I understand that it must be hard for you to believe me, Arthur. Those people, they invaded your mind. It is what such people do. But I will ensure you have the very best treatment. And I will prove to you that they lied and I do not.'

Arthur did not respond, in either word or gesture, but simply kept his face averted, his eyes screwed tight shut. So Mycroft turned, again, and walked away, leaving him alone.

ooOoo


	38. Stolen Chapter Thirty Seven

**Inference of sexual abuse of a minor.**

**Chapter Thirty Seven**

'I am so angry with him, Mary!' Molly sobbed, her hands held in tight fists around wodges of screwed up tissue that she had used to blow her nose and dab, intermittently, at her eyes.

She was sitting on the bed in Nelson and Mary was sitting on the bedroom chair, cradling Violet in her arms, rocking gently.

'I know I'm being selfish and I hate myself for that but I can't help it. He has a responsibility towards us. He has three children who all love him and would be beside themselves with grief if he were to…die!'

'Don't feel guilty, Molly,' Mary insisted, her eyes brimming with sympathy for her friend. 'I said more or less the same thing to John, when he told me how they had gone there against the specific instructions of the Lead Agent…'

'What?' Molly gasped, brought up short by this shocking revelation. 'They were told not to go there? Mycroft never said that!'

'Oh, God, Molly! I'm so sorry! I thought you knew!' Mary was beside herself, now, with remorse. 'Mycroft probably wanted to spare your feelings.'

'No, Mary! Mycroft was wrong! Don't you dare to apologise for telling me the truth! Tell me everything that John told you. I have a right to know!'

Mary adjusted Violet in her lap, the baby sleeping peacefully now she was no longer in her mother's arms, feeling her mother's tension.

'Well, apparently, Sherlock worked out where Arthur was being held and was all set to go there but John insisted they call for back-up, which they did. He spoke to the agent in charge of the operation, as Mycroft and his PA were both in Belgium, interviewing the kidnapper. So the agent ordered up a Special Ops team and told John and Sherlock to stay put and let the professionals handle it.'

Molly nodded, ironically. She just knew what was coming.

'Well, that was the problem, you see,' Mary went on. 'Up until then, John had been the voice of reason but when the agent called him a 'member of the public', it rather hurt his pride so he changed his mind about staying out of it and decided they should go there, anyway.'

'Oh, my God! They are both as bad as each other!' Molly snorted.

'And that's how Arthur's sister got involved, because she drove them to the hospital and was waiting for them, outside, when the terrorists found her and took her prisoner.'

'Oh, for God's sake…' Molly was lost for words.

'John didn't want her to drive them but she insisted and Sherlock sided with her, John says. Sorry, but you asked me to tell you everything,' Mary apologised.

'So he wasn't just being a hero! He was being an arrogant…PIG!' Molly screeched, as quietly as she could manage, under the circumstances, so as not to awaken Violet.

Mary paused for a moment, to allow her friend to get her anger under control, then she went on.

'Anyway, the two of them found a way into the building and managed to get to the room where Arthur was being held but then the bad guys turned up – John thinks they must have tripped an alarm, somewhere along the way – and when Sherlock saw who the leader of the cell was, this Moran person, he acted shocked and let them take him away with them. They left John behind, locked in the room, but he still had his phone so he was able to call for help.'

'Oh, damn him! He just has to do the opposite of whatever he's told! He's like an over-grown bloody teenager! And he has this ridiculous belief in his own immortality! He really thinks he's indestructible!' Molly was fuming but at least she didn't feel guilty any more.

'Just wait 'til I get my hands on him! Thinks he'll live forever? He will wish he had never been born!'

ooOoo

On leaving Arthur's room, Mycroft was making his way towards the Nurses' Station when his phone vibrated in the inside breast pocket of his jacket. He diverted into the Family Room, in order to take the call, which was from Anthea.

'Sir, the team are finished here. We did find some DVD's in the cottage they were using as a billet. They are all gay porn films, low cost commercially produced, nothing out of the ordinary. Would you like me to bring them for you to view?'

'No, thank you, my dear. I believe what we are looking for is more person specific than that. Whatever it is, I suspect they were at pains to take it with them. When we find them, we will find it. Is there any news from Dr Watson?'

'Yes, sir, Miss Brocklehurst was able to give him more details about the vehicle she described as a lorry. Agent Richmond believes it was actually a horse box, based on the additional information. I've sent the new intel to the local police forces and to the British Transport Police. They will be scrutinizing all the footage from traffic cameras, throughout the region, over the last twenty four hours and will advise us on what they find.'

'Excellent news. And the prisoners who were taken last night, where are they now?'

'They are currently in transit, en route to Vauxhall. They've already been processed. Their interrogations will begin when they arrive.'

'Then I think we are done, here. Agents Richmond and Monroe can clear the site and oversee the protection for the family members. Please, collect me from the hospital. We'll return to our hotel and make that our HQ, for the time being, until we locate the horse box and, from that, learn the whereabouts of my brother.'

Mycroft closed the call and continued on to the Nurses' Station, where he found the Duty Sister.

'I wish to make arrangements for Mr Brocklehurst's transfer to a specialist facility, as soon as he is fit to travel. I can provide medical care for the journey, which I will arrange by Air Ambulance, so he will be in transit for the shortest possible time.'

The Sister looked a little taken aback by Mycroft's ruthless efficiency and complete lack of sentiment but she had been a nurse long enough to know that different people dealt with difficult times in disparate ways. She smiled at Mycroft and tapped on the keys of a pc to bring up Arthur's medical notes.

'His bloods are gradually returning to normal, his core temperature is back up to scratch and his other injuries are not too serious,' she noted. 'He's been listed for a Psych Consult. He won't be discharged until that's been carried out.'

'Will the psychiatric consultation take place today?'

'I would imagine so. It really depends on how busy the Psych Consultant is. We only have a very small Mental Health staff here, you see.'

'The clinic in which I intend to arrange for treatment is a specialist Psychiatric Unit with particular expertise in treating PTSD, most especially in ex-hostages.'

'That is highly specialised,' the Sister commented.

'I think they will be able to meet Mr Brocklehurst's needs perfectly,' Mycroft replied, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out his wallet, from which he extracted a business card.

'These are my contact details,' he explained, handing the card to the nurse. 'I'm currently staying at the Railway Hotel, in the town. I would be most grateful if you would call me on my mobile number, as soon as you have a time for the psychiatric consultation. I would like to be here when that's carried out – in the building, if not in the room.'

The Duty sister looked at the card and her eyes widened when she saw the title written there, a title which Mycroft never used but which was his, by birth right, through his mother's line.

'Yes, of course, Lord H…'

'Mr Holmes, if you please, Sister…Arbuthnot,' Mycroft corrected her, with a deferential smile. 'And if there should be any sudden deterioration in Mr Brocklehurst's condition, I would be most grateful if you would inform me, immediately. He's asked me to bring him some clothes and shoes. I will do so, when I return. If he should enquire, would you inform him, please?'

'I will be sure to do that, Mr Holmes,' she assured him.

ooOoo

Anticipating Moran's 'main event', Sherlock was not sure what to expect but, as the grainy images on the wide screen TV came more sharply into focus, he was unable to contain his astonishment. He got up from his chair and approached the screen for a closer look and could only marvel at the skill and trickery that had gone into creating this work of cinematic fiction. Had he not known, beyond doubt, that these images could not possibly be real, even he might have been convinced by them.

He tilted his head to one side, to scrutinize the features of his own adolescent visage – circa 15 or 16, he calculated – and marvelled at the way his and Mycroft's movements were so well synchronised. He really could not see the join. He did, however, recognise the bed linen. It was his mother's. And, suddenly, the penny dropped and he roared with laughter.

'What, exactly, is so amusing, Mr Holmes?' Moran asked, tartly, not in the least impressed by Sherlock's response to his prize piece of skulduggery.

'Oh, you really wouldn't understand,' Sherlock replied, returning to his chair, in awe of his mother's ingenuity. It did explain the sudden disappearance of a certain Kitchen Assistant, with whom he had shared some rather fun physical activity, one half-term break from boarding school. He had been extremely disappointed, next time he came home, to find that she was no longer in post. After all these years, he finally understood. He would share this revelation with Molly, when he eventually got out of this place.

It also explained Arthur's strange ramblings during the Skype conversation. Moran had done quite a number on that man's poor head. Sherlock could not blame his future brother in law for being taken in by the subterfuge, even had he not been drugged and disorientated. The biggest mystery was how Moran had acquired his mother's candid camera footage of him and his 'seductress', from such a long time past. But now was not the time to ask.

'So what's your plan, Mastermind?' Sherlock asked, with a patronising edge to his voice.

'Isn't it obvious? I would have thought a man of your intellect could have worked it out all on your own.'

'Alright, if you insist,' Sherlock acceded, steepling his hands again and settling back into his seat. 'You want me to make a statement to corroborate the content of that video and expose my brother as a sexual predator, an incestuous paedophile, no less, so that, even when the footage has been proven to be faked, my testimony will still damn him. His reputation with be ruined – as will that of the Government, who chose him to advise them on how best to deal with the latest Westminster sex scandal. Double whammy, two birds with one stone.'

Having concluded his deduction, he looked across at his companion and quirked an eyebrow.

'Very good, Mr Holmes, you do not disappoint me.'

'Oh, but I do!' Sherlock replied, turning in his chair to face the other man. 'Your plan is doomed to failure, Colonel – worse than failure, in fact! This will only result in confirming my brother as the selfless hero that half of Whitehall and most of the Government believe him to be. Only, now, the general public – who are ignorant of his very existence, at the moment – will think of him as a selfless hero, too.'

Moran gritted his teeth and clenched his fists but he had to ask the question.

'Why do you say that?'

Sherlock threw Moran's words back at him, with just a minor but significant edit.

'Isn't it obvious? I would have thought even a man of your intellect could have worked it out all on your own.'

Moran's colour darkened to a deeper shade of puce but he pursed his lips and waited for his annoying guest to explain himself.

Having noted, with satisfaction, the negative effect his manner was having on his host, Sherlock spoke again.

'Mycroft's minions will make mincemeat of that video footage and then they will drag up my past misdemeanours, notably my experimentation with illegal substances and various periods of mental instability – that's a _nervous breakdown, _to the uninitiated. I will be shown to be the terrible burden that my poor sibling has been forced to bear, ever since the untimely death of both our parents in a tragic accident, which thrust him into a position of huge responsibility, at a very tender age.

Yet, despite my many transgressions and indiscretions, he will be shown to have always stood by me, rescued me from all the desperate situations into which I've thrown myself, over the years, cleaned up after me and put me back on my feet, whilst still running the family estate and holding down a ridiculously difficult and pivotal job for Queen and country… Oh, my God, they'll be calling for his beatification!

And I will be publicly humiliated, hounded by the Press, yet again, my own reputation shattered. My wife and children will be pointed and stared at in the street - they won't be able to set foot out of the house… Do I make myself clear?'

He paused for dramatic effect then gave a bark of caustic laughter,

'And do you know the true irony of all this?'

'I hope you're going to enlighten me,' Moran growled, still coming to terms with the prospect of all his meticulous planning coming to a big, fat nought.

Sherlock stared at the other man for a full minute, as though weighing up his options and eventually finding in Moran's favour.

'By some bizarre twist of Fate, you have managed to fall upon a secret known only to my brother and myself. And I do have the evidence - genuine, irrefutable proof - that my brother actually did abuse me.'

ooOoo


	39. Stolen Chapter Thirty Eight

**Reference to sexual abuse but no graphic descriptions.**

**Chapter Thirty Eight**

Even as he made that statement, the little colour that Sherlock's cheeks possessed drained away and his body began to tremble. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. His breath hitched as the panic attack took hold.

Moran looked on, in amazement, as the man in front of him visibly crumbled.

'I would rather appreciate…some of that brandy you served last night, if you would…be so kind,' Sherlock gasped, rubbing his face with his hands and trying to suppress the nausea rising from his gut. 'And a glass of water, if you please?'

Moran curled a smile at the other man's discomfort but did get up and cross to a sideboard, unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured a generous measure into a glass. He reached into a small fridge, fitted inside the cupboard, and brought out a bottle of water, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock, all the while. He carried both items back to his guest, who held out two shaking hands to grasp the brandy glass. Moran put the water bottle on a side table and retook his seat.

'Well, Mr Holmes, either you are a world class actor or you might actually be telling me the truth,' he quipped.

Sherlock sipped at the brandy, eyes tight shut, and strove to get the panic attack under control. He couldn't lose it now. He understood that this involuntary display of vulnerability was working in his favour, at the moment, but it was affecting his ability to think clearly and stay ahead of the game. He concentrated on regulating his breathing, relaxing his tense muscles and slowing his racing heart rate. The brandy was helping. The water helped, too, as he exchanged the glass for the bottle, but he could really use a cigarette, right now.

'I'm waiting, Mr Holmes,' Moran prompted, not entirely convinced that his guest wasn't putting on a show.

With a monumental effort, Sherlock quelled his physiological responses and took back the brandy glass, to sip as he explained himself to Moran.

'When my parents died.., well, let's just say I didn't take the news quite as well as my Iceman sibling did. In fact, I suffered an emotional collapse. I was admitted to a private clinic for treatment and was kept there for three months, more or less, during which time I was designated a Vulnerable Adult and made a ward of court, with my brother as my legally-appointed guardian. Because of my hospitalisation, I missed my parents' funeral, which is something that has haunted me, ever since.'

His breath hitched once again, at that point, and he took another sip of the brandy, to steady his resolve.

'When I was discharged, they sent me home with a whole chemist's shop worth of medication, which was administered by a private nurse that my brother took on, to take care of me. She turned out to be a bit of a lush. Every night, after she gave me my knock-out pills – I was having trouble sleeping, you see. Still do, as a matter of fact – she used to hit the bottle and be out for the count by midnight. However, she was fairly efficient, during the day, and she didn't try to make me think she was my friend, so I rather admired her for that. At the time, I thought she was just a spy, for Mycroft. I still believe she probably was.

Anyway, getting back to the point of why I'm telling you all this – I've never told this to anyone, not even my wife, so I hope you appreciate how privileged you are – once I got back home, I started having these really bizarre dreams that I was being visited by demons and evil spirits, in the night. I have to say, I was pretty out of it at that time and the cocktail of drugs I was on could have felled an elephant, so if it were just the dreams, one would probably not attach too much significance. But there was physical evidence…'

He stopped abruptly and took another tremulous gulp of the brandy. Moran waited, fascinated by the performance so far but also intrigued about what was to come.

After a second slug of the warming liquid, Sherlock continued his account.

'There was physical evidence on my body – bruises and abrasions – that I couldn't account for. I became quite paranoid, convinced that I was being attacked, during the night as I slept, by these supernatural beings. I believed the dreams to be true. So, me being me, I decided to investigate. I set up a secret camera in my bedroom, hidden in my bookcase, which fed into my PC and, before the nurse came in to give me my evening meds, I set the camera running.

The morning after, I checked the results and…I don't think I have to go into detail about what I discovered. Long story short, it was not a bunch of mythological creatures interfering with me but a real-life monster – my dear brother.'

Sherlock could feel his heart rate increasing again and he broke out in a cold sweat but pressed on with his story.

'I was in a bit of a quandary. I was terrified about would happen if my brother found out I had filmed him – as he was my legal guardian and had complete control of my life. I was so paranoid I didn't trust the doctors or anyone else. I had no one I could confide in. So I kept the evidence secret, copied it onto a disc and deleted it from my hard drive. I hid it away but I never threw it away. I think I always believed that there might come a time when I could use it against him. And I think that time has come.'

Sherlock looked across at the other man, and Moran was quite shocked by the haunted look in his guest's eyes. He found himself utterly convinced that what he had just heard was, indeed, the truth.

'So where is the disc now?'

'It's not on a disc now. I transferred it to a memory stick, a few years ago, and hid it in a very secret place.'

'Tell me where it is. I'll send someone to collect it,' Moran declared.

Sherlock shook his head, adamantly.

'Oh, no! Not a chance! This is my most secret place, the one place I know that I can go and be completely safe. No one knows about it, not even my darling wife, who knows absolutely everything about me. No, only one person can go and get the memory stick and that person is me.'

Now it was Moran's turn to be adamant.

'Do you expect me to trust you to go and collect this piece of so-called irrefutable evidence, all on your own? Do you think I'm completely stupid?'

'Well, of course I think you're completely stupid. That goes without saying. But, taking that as read, I am not willing to compromise on this. Either you let me go and get it, on my own and without a tail of any sort – human or electronic – or the deal is off.'

Moran was flabbergasted. This man's arrogance knew no bounds. He opened and closed his mouth, several times, but could not come up with an utterance that did justice to his outrage.

'I can see you need to consider my proposal further so, if you don't mind, I'd rather like to return to my room,' Sherlock requested, his voice weak and breathy. 'Oddly enough, I don't feel at all well. Reliving such a traumatic episode in one's life can do that to a person. Just call that chatty man with a penchant for martial arts, would you?'

Moran glared at the detective but stood up and crossed to the door. When he opened it, Sherlock saw that the guard was standing outside.

'Take him back upstairs,' his host growled. 'And make sure he stays there.'

ooOoo

The guard marched over to Sherlock and, grabbing him by one arm, yanked him up out of the chair. He just about managed to put the glass down in time, or he would have been drenched in the remains of his drink. He was hauled out of the room and pushed toward the staircase. As he began to climb, his head swam and he tripped on the step, pitching forward. He put out his hands to save himself and thus avoided falling, face first, onto the treads.

The guard made no attempt to help him up but as he righted himself, the man gave him a good shove in the small of his back which almost sent him crashing forward again. He grasped the banister and dragged himself up the stairs and along the landing, back to his room, where the guard opened the door, pushed him inside and shut the door again.

He staggered over to the bed and flopped down on the mattress, so relieved to be alone, at last. He covered his face with his hands and took a few deep breaths, which helped to clear his head, a little. He lay like that, unmoving, for several minutes then pushed himself up to sitting and leaned against the head board, while he fished in the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter, feeling immeasurably grateful that he had stopped off at the cigarette kiosk, on his way to meet John at Euston Station.

He peeled off the cellophane wrapper, flipped open the top and pulled out the silver paper, dropping the debris on the carpeted floor. He shook out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips and then tossed the packet onto the bedside cabinet. Sliding off the bed, he walked unsteadily to the window and unscrewed the fastener that was holding the sash closed. But, when he tried to lift the bottom sash, nothing happened. He tried again, but it stuck fast, screwed shut, he deduced.

He reached up to the top sash and pulled down. This one moved, but only about four inches, then hit a block in the frame and would not lower any further. He turned to the room, in general and said,

'I'm not trying to escape, I just want some fresh air and to ventilate the room while I have a smoke, if that's alright with you.'

He was fairly sure that the room was wired for sound and vision, so he took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it in the air so that whoever was watching would be able to see it. Then he stuck it back in his mouth, lit it and inhaled a deep breath.

He felt his brain buzz and his skin tingle at the first hit of nicotine and he leaned against the wall, next to the window, closing his eyes and holding his breath, to get the full benefit before exhaling very slowly. Only now could he even begin to think about the terrible risk he had just taken, in that room downstairs, with Moran.

Everything he had told the colonel about his reaction to his parents' death and his weird dreams was absolutely true. Yes, he had set up the secret camera and, yes, he had discovered the cause of the abrasions and bruises on his body and, yes, Mycroft was involved. But that was where the facts deviated from the fiction.

When Sherlock had viewed the footage the next day, he had been shocked to see himself thrashing around in his own bed, throwing himself from side to side, banging his head, repeatedly, against the wall. He had seen Mycroft come running in, grab him by his upper arms and hold him down on the mattress, while he kicked and screamed and tried to fight his brother off.

And when, eventually, the thrashing and screaming subsided, Mycroft had taken him into his arms and hugged him, smoothing the hair back off his forehead and rocking him, to sooth and calm him. Then his brother had laid him back in his bed and covered him over and sat beside him for the rest of the night, just in case it happened again.

Sherlock had recorded similar scenes every night for a whole week and then the night terrors had stopped, just as abruptly as they had started. He had copied the footage onto a disc and wiped the hard drive, and he had never mentioned this to anyone. Not even Mycroft knew that he knew about this phase in his life. Maybe one day he would tell him. Maybe one day, he would thank him. Because not only had he saved him then, but he had saved him now, by giving him the means by which to affect an escape from this posh prison into which he had placed himself.

It was perfectly obvious to Sherlock that the house was like a fortress, with no chance of sneaking out undetected, so he had needed an excuse to leave. A trip to London, in order to retrieve the non-existent sex tape, was just what the detective ordered. Once back on his own turf, the odds became stacked decidedly in his favour. He just had to hope that he had been convincing enough for Moran to agree to it.

And, in order to be convincing, he'd had to play the part of the victim of abuse to perfection. To achieve that, he had done the unthinkable. He had gone down into the depths of his Mind Palace, to the place where he kept his most fearsome enemy to date, in chains and under lock and key, and he had released The Dragon.

The extreme panic reaction that had followed had been entirely genuine. No one could have faked it so well, not even that actor person that Molly was so obsessed with. But, having released her and channelled all that angst into his performance, he then had to put her back, which is what he had been doing as he lay on the bed – forcing her back into her dungeon, replacing the chains and locking the door.

And she did not go willingly. Irene Adler, his true abuser, had never done anything, willingly, that she didn't want to do so why would her avatar be any different? Only now that she was safely locked away, again, could he even begin to think about his next move, and that depended entirely on Moran taking the bait.

He crossed back to the bed and shook another cigarette from the pack, lighting it from the stub of the first one, then returned to the window and flipped the dog end out through the four inch gap at the top. He inhaled, deeply, and stared out at the North Yorkshire scenery, wondering what might happen next.

ooOoo

**It's my birthday this weekend so I am going away for a week (yay!) so may not be up-dating during that time. But I hope I've put your minds at ease over one matter, at least! :)**


	40. Stolen Chapter Thirty Nine

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Thirty Nine**

Mycroft slid into the rear passenger seat of Agent Richmond's car, next to Anthea, and acknowledged John Watson, in the front passenger seat, with a nod.

'First priority, my dear, Arthur needs some clothes,' he told his PA.

'A personal shopper could deal with that, sir. Most of the big stores in Manchester will have them, I should think. Is that the case, Richmond?'

'Yes, ma'am. The Trafford Centre has a service that covers all the shops but, if you have a brand preference, there's Selfridges, House of Fraser, Debenhams, Harvey Nichols…'

'Harvey Nichols will suffice,' Mycroft interceded. 'I've sent you a list of his requirements, with sizes. Could you take care of that?' he asked the PA.

'Of course, sir,' Anthea replied.

'And I assume they can deliver today?'

'I'm sure that won't be an issue.'

'Do we have any progress on the search for the horse box?' Mycroft asked, moving on to the next priority.

'Not at the moment. The Transport Police are still reviewing their camera footage. It's a large area to cover, they say,' Anthea replied.

'Then they need to put more staff on it,' Mycroft grunted, unimpressed by excuses.

The car pulled up outside the Railway Hotel and the three passengers climbed out, then Richmond drove away, back to the derelict hospital, to finish the clean-up. Dr Knowles' body had been removed, late last night, and was undergoing a post-mortem, though there was little doubt about the cause of death. Every scrap of evidence had been bagged, tagged and packed in sealed boxes to be sent for processing at the Home Office facility in London. So the only thing remaining was to clear and seal the site, to put it back to how it was before Moran's people took it over. Then, he thought, perhaps he and Monroe could go home to bed. It had been more than twenty four hours since either of them had slept.

On entering the hotel Reception Area, the party approached the desk to collect their keys.

'Good afternoon, sirs, madam,' the Duty Manager greeted them. 'Could I ask, will the other Mr Holmes be returning? When the housekeeper cleaned his room, it was noted that his bag is still there but he didn't return last night.'

'No, I don't think he will be returning. Would you have his belongings brought to my room? I can take them back to London for him,' Mycroft replied, smiling politely, as he accepted his key. Anthea and John took theirs, too.

'Lunch is still being served,' the young man advised them. 'You can order room service, if you would prefer. Just use the phones in your rooms.'

John's ears pricked at the mention of lunch. Breakfast seemed a long time ago.

They all turned to walk round the corner to the lift but Mycroft turned back.

'Tell me, would you have an up-to-date Road Atlas that I could borrow?'

He had Google Maps on his phone but Mycroft was a Twentieth Century man. He preferred hard copy.

The Duty Manager reached under the desk and took out a large AA Road Atlas, placing it on the counter top.

'This one is two years old, sir, but planned roads and roads under construction are all marked on it,' he explained.

Mycroft smiled his thanks and tucked the Atlas under his arm, to take to his room. When the lift reached the top floor, the three each headed to their own rooms, with their individual next moves in mind. Anthea would be checking with Agent Delaney to see if there was anything yet to report from the interrogations of Moran's men, John would be perusing the Lunch Menu and ordering something filling, and Mycroft would be studying the road atlas.

ooOoo

After smoking three cigarettes on the bounce, Sherlock's brain was in sharp focus once again, just as he needed it to be. He went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and rinse his mouth with a little of that expensive mouthwash provided by his generous host. He opened the front of his jacket and sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the condition of his two-day shirt, not helped by his attack of cold sweats.

Picking up the body spray cologne that he had used earlier, he debated whether to risk another hit. He did so hate to smell like a tart's bedroom but this stuff – although not his usual brand – was not half bad so he opened his shirt and sprayed himself again. He really needed to get out of this place and find a change of clothes.

A thought occurred, prompting him to return to the bedroom and open the large, antique wardrobe. It was hung with several pairs of black combat trousers and a number of combat jackets, varying sizes. Lined up in the bottom were a number of pairs of combat boots, also all different sizes. The linen press contained only bed linen, a spare duvet and pillows. The five drawer chest completed the search. The bottom two drawers were filled with black t-shirts, like the ones the foot soldiers had been wearing, at the derelict hospital, all freshly laundered and neatly folded. The top three drawers were stuffed with webbing straps and belts, gloves and socks, berets and balaclavas, all black, too,

So this room was the quartermaster's store. Perhaps this was where the potential new recruits were housed, while they underwent background checks and initiation rights. Moran clearly liked to keep things in-house.

When the guard returned to take him back downstairs, he was directed to the dining room, where his host invited him to take a seat and help himself to lunch. He lifted the covers of the dishes but was unimpressed so just poured a glass of water.

'Not hungry?' Moran asked, tucking into lamb chops and vegetables with great enthusiasm.

'I don't eat when I'm…away from home,' Sherlock replied, checking himself just in time and taking that near faux pas as a reminder to be on Red Alert at all times.

He sat quietly, waiting for the Colonel to finish his meal and start the conversation. Having cleared his plate, Moran wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, propped his elbows on the table and folded his hands.

'We lost a number of good men in that raid, last night,' he declared.

'My condolences,' Sherlock replied.

'Oh, not that kind of 'lost', though they might as well have been. Once your brother's people have finished with them, they'll be of no use to me.'

'So I imagine you'll be moving house, pretty soon,' Sherlock observed.

'Not necessary. They won't give away any information – well, nothing of any value to Mycroft's mob. They are all well versed in anti-interrogation techniques. As I said, good men.'

Sherlock shrugged but said nothing.

'I'm still not entirely sure I can trust you, Mr Holmes,' Moran said, clearly moving on, 'but I do believe your story. I would very much like to see the contents of this memory stick but I can't just let you go off on your own to get it.'

'Then we have an impasse,' Sherlock replied and lapsed back into silence again.

Moran stared at him, then replied,

'The way I see it, you are in no position to dictate matters. Either you agree to my terms or the deal is off and, if I have no further business with you, you will go the way of Dr Knowles. Nothing would give me greater pleasure – short of total public exposure and humiliation – than to send you back to your brother in a body bag.'

Sherlock stared him down, wondering what his terms might be.

'I need some sort of guarantee that you will come back with the goods. Another hostage, perhaps,' Moran elaborated.

Sherlock scoffed,

'Well, good luck with that. Everyone who means anything to me is neatly tucked away in a safe haven.'

'Not quite everyone,' Moran replied with a leary grin.

For the first time, Sherlock wondered whether Mycroft had thought to include Mrs Hudson in the invitation to Colbert House and he silently damned himself for not insisting on it, at the time. Rather than draw attention to that weak spot, he decided to appear to accept the fait acompli.

'Oh, whatever. I'm getting really bored with this game and I could use a change of clothes so, alright, you can send someone with me, if you insist.'

He pursed his lips, to emphasise his annoyance.

'Good. We'll go tonight,' Moran nodded, with a triumphant grin. 'And you can have that change of clothes you are so desperate for. In your room, as you already know, are various items of clothing that will enable you to blend in with my men, on our trip to London. You're sure to find a set that will fit you. An you need to do something with that,' the colonel added, waving in the general direction of Sherlock's head.

'I'm not cutting my hair!' Sherlock exclaimed, his expression that of a disgruntled diva.

'Then slick it back with something,' Moran snapped back. 'There's hair gel and similar products in your bathroom. Just make yourself look less like a pansy and more like a soldier.'

As though as an afterthought, Sherlock added,

'But first, I need to email my wife. I haven't spoken to her today and she'll be worried. God only knows what lies Mycroft has told her. He loves to make trouble between us.'

He looked at the sceptical expression of the other man and added,

'Oh, please, don't be boring. You _can_ read it. There won't be any secret coded messages, this time. She's my wife, not a superspy!'

Moran got up from the table and gestured for Sherlock to follow him. They went from the dining room back to the study, collecting the guard on the way, and Sherlock was invited to sit at the desk again. Moran stood behind him and watched as he opened the anonymous email account and tapped in Molly's St Bart's email address. He wasn't about to divulge her private one and it was common knowledge that she worked at Bart's, anyway.

He began to type:

_My darling Molly_

_I am so very sorry to have kept you in the dark. I've made a deal that will free me from Mycroft's yoke forever. Soon we'll be able to take that nice little place in Bayswater, just us and the boys._

_Much love, as always_

_Sherly xxx_

Having typed the message, he glanced at his host, who was reading over his shoulder.

'If you ever tell a soul about her pet name for me, I will kill you,' he warned, with venom in his voice.

Moran just laughed at his guest's discomfort and nodded his permission to send the email. Sherlock did just that.

ooOoo

At Colbert House, Molly was in the dining room, with Mary, Michele and all the children, sharing a cold lunch. It was far too warm outside to be eating anything cooked. Once the meal was over, Mary and Mycroft's nanny took the four three year olds up to the Nursery for a story and a nap. William went to the library, to research bees, and Molly took Violet upstairs for her nap. As she laid the baby in the travel cot and covered her with a light blanket, she heard her phone ping an email alert.

Crossing to the bedside table, she picked up her mobile and opened the email app. She saw that the message had been forwarded, automatically, from her work email account. She wondered who it could be from. All her colleagues knew she was still on Maternity Leave. As she opened and read it, her hand shot straight to her mouth and she quickly switched to the phone app and dialled Mycroft's number.

'What is it, my dear?' he brother-in-law asked, as soon as he answered.

'Mycroft, I've had an anonymous email from Sherlock. I know it's definitely from him.'

'What does it say?' Mycroft prompted, eager to hear what his brother had communicated to his wife.

'Well, it starts 'My darling Molly', which is a code phrase because he never calls me anything but Molly. I use lots of terms of endearment to him and the children but he doesn't go in for that sort of thing. Definitely not his area.'

'And the message?'

She read out the main body of the text.

'_I am so very sorry to have kept you in the dark. I've made a deal that will free me from Mycroft's yoke forever. Soon we'll be able to take that nice little place in Bayswater, just us and the boys._'

Mycroft mulled over the cryptic message. The first part was clear enough. After dark, Sherlock would be 'free' from his current place of incarceration. The next part was more of a puzzle.

'What is the significance of Bayswater?' he asked.

'He has a secret bolt hole in Leinster Gardens, Bayswater. He told me about it ages ago. He says I'm the only other person he has ever told so the fact that he is mentioning it now, knowing that I will pass this message on to you, means this must be a pretty desperate situation,' she explained. 'He wouldn't have me give away such a big secret otherwise.'

'He must be going there, presumably under guard, so one must assume he has persuaded Moran that there is a damn good reason to do so. Perhaps he's led him to believe that something significant can be found there. Where exactly is this bolt hole?'

'You will know it when you see it, Mycroft. That's what he always told me, that you would know exactly what it was, if you ever saw it.'

Mycroft had to smile at that comment, so typical of his brother, who loved a puzzle.

'And the last part,' Molly continued, 'he says 'just us and the boys'. He makes no mention of Violet, so he can't mean our children.'

'No, I think perhaps he is telling us that the party will include him, Moran and some of his men - 'the boys'. He's warning us that it could be messy. He obviously wants me to set a trap, an ambush.'

'Yes, I'm sure that's what he means. And then, in the last part, he says, 'Much love as always, Sherly' and three x's,' she concluded. 'Again, he never says 'much love' and he certainly would never refer to himself as Sherly or add kisses to a message – well, one maybe, but never three.'

'Much love, Sherly and three x's, what could that mean?' Mycroft mused. 'Leave it with me, Molly. We have cryptographers here who will probably be able to work that out. And, thank you, my dear. This will be most helpful.'

'Mycroft, that bit about being free of your yoke? Why would he say that?' Molly asked, feeling uncomfortable with the negative connotations of that statement.

'Based on several strange comments and remarks he has said or written, it would seem that he's playing a game with Moran, that he's made some sort of pact with the man against me.'

'So is this all just a personal attack on you? Does Moran hate you that much?

'Moran blames me for the death of Moriarty and the destruction of the Irishman's criminal empire but I don't think it's entirely personal. The chief aim of Combat 18 is to bring down democratically elected governments, so I assume the aim is to attack our Government through me. If my brother has convinced the Colonel that he has evidence that could be detrimental to my reputation – that could publicly humiliate and discredit me – it would be a very attractive prospect, both to Moran and to Combat 18.'

'What sort of evidence could that be?' Molly wondered aloud.

'I suspect it involves some sort of sexual deviance, my dear. Arthur said something that suggested as much. He is convinced, at the moment, that what he has been told – or shown – is genuine.'

'Oh, Mycroft, surely not?' she exclaimed.

'I'm afraid so, Molly, but I am hopeful that, following a stint at St Hugh's, he will be able to see the lies for what they are.'

Molly could hear the sadness in her brother-in-law's voice. Neither he nor Arthur or the children deserved any of this. It was too cruel.

'I'm sure he will, Mycroft, once he is himself again,' she replied, hoping against hope that she was right.

'How is the family?' Mycroft asked, as though following her line of reasoning, which of course he was.

'Much as you would expect,' Molly replied. 'Poor Charlie is lost without his Poppah. Katy is coping better, and our three – well, I'm sure you can guess the rest.'

'Well, on the positive side, I'm confident that Arthur will be discharged from hospital later today so I'm having him transferred straight to St Hugh's. If Sherlock is heading for Bayswater, I will return to London this afternoon and we'll have Leinster Gardens staked out before night fall.'

'Would you like me to say anything to Katy and Charlie?' she asked.

'Yes, if you would be so kind. Tell them that they will see Daddy and Poppah very soon. Not today, but probably tomorrow. I wish I could tell you to give the same message to William and Freddie but, as you know, we mustn't raise their hopes prematurely. I'm truly sorry for that, Molly.'

'I know you are, Mycroft, I know,' she replied.

ooOoo

**Couldn't keep away from the laptop! This story is racing to a big finish, I hope...**


	41. Stolen Chapter Forty

**Hello, dear readers. I discovered a huge plot hole in the previous chapter, so I have taken steps to plug it. If you wouldn't mind, please go back and reread Ch 39, to bring you back up to speed. Sorry about that!**

**Chapter Forty**

Closing the call from Molly, Mycroft called Anthea and asked her to come to his room. He shared with her the information his sister in law had provided and gave her his orders, with respect to the staking out of the road in Bayswater and the decoding of the final part of the message Sherlock had sent. Finally, he instructed her to make arrangements for the transfer of Arthur to St Hugh's and their own return to London, immediately following the psychiatric assessment of the young man in question. Anthea returned to her own room to carry out her boss's instructions.

Mycroft returned his attention to the double page spread of the Road Atlas, open at the section covering this part of England. He had marked the position on the A635 where Arthur and Josie had been abandoned by Moran in his horse box hideaway. He was deducing where the horse box would have gone, after that.

The box was travelling east, toward Holmfirth and the A629, when it dumped two of its occupants. Having met that road, in which direction would it be most likely to turn - north towards Huddersfield or south to the M1? The M1 could take them back to London, or it could lead them further north, towards Leeds.

Mycroft put himself in Moran's situation, taking on the Colonel's mind set and factoring in the mode of transport. A horse box, in the countryside, was unremarkable. In the middle of a big city, it would stand out like a beacon. Also, as Sherlock had pointed out previously, this whole caper had a distinctly Northern feel to it. So, north it was.

At Leeds, the M1 joined the A1, to become the A1(M) and continue its northerly progress through West Yorkshire, forging a path through the gap between the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors, past Wetherby, Harrogate, Ripon and Thirsk, through Richmond and on up to Newcastle on Tyne.

Looking for a horse box in Yorkshire was the equivalent to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But this horse box had letters on the side – the initials WB. What sort of person put their initials on the side of a horse box? A professional horseperson, obviously - a polo player, an event rider, a race horse trainer, a horse breeder?

Mycroft continued to trace the A1(M) on its route north and the name Middleham caught his eye, just south of Richmond. Cog wheels clicked into place in his machine-like brain and he narrowed his eyes. Middleham was a major centre for horse racing, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. Was there a racing trainer in Middleham with the initials WB? And, if so, would he allow a terrorist organisation to use his horse box to transport kidnap victims? The first of those questions was easily answered. Mycroft Googled it.

ooOoo

Sherlock inspected his reflection in the full length bedroom mirror and was not entirely displeased with what he saw. He'd always liked the colour black and the cut of these military-style combat trousers and T-shirt rather accentuated his slim build and muscular torso. He had chosen the closest fitting set he could find. The short sleeves showed off his biceps to good effect, too.

Scraping his hair back off his forehead, however, was not to his taste. He felt it made his face look too long and thin – like a horse, he thought – but the black beret could be worn at a jaunty angle over one eye so he would have to settle for that. Sherlock was the first to admit that he was vain. He didn't much care for other people's opinions on most things but he did care about his appearance. He had always drawn admiring glances and, even though he feigned indifference, he certainly liked to be noticed

It was a relief to get into some freshly laundered togs. He folded his suit - jacket and trousers - and his shirt and placed them on the bedroom chair, along with his handmade shoes. He would have to leave them here, he realised, or Moran would suspect that he was intent on absconding, once they got back to his old stamping ground.

He was confident that Mycroft would eventually work out where Moran's base was and send a raiding party. In the event that he had already departed the scene, he hoped the team would bag and tag his personal possessions and eventually return them to him. He was rather glad it was July and he had not been wearing his Belstaff coat. That was irreplaceable. He would hate to have to abandon it anywhere, even if his life depended on it.

He looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Moran had said they would be leaving as soon as it was dark, so he figured he had a good six hours to wait. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He might as well use the time profitably. Within moments, he was asleep.

ooOoo

The call came just after three pm, advising Mycroft that the Psychiatric Assessment of Arthur's mental state would take place in approximately half an hour. He, Anthea and John were packed and ready to leave, waiting only on the phone call, so a cab was summoned to transport them to the Tameside Hospital.

John was unhappy about leaving the area, not knowing where Sherlock was or even whether he was alive or dead. He felt partly responsible for the situation in which his friend now found himself. He really should not have allowed Agent Delaney's comments about 'members of the public' to rile him. That was, after all, what he was now. He should have made sure Sherlock stayed well clear of the derelict psychiatric hospital and let the Special Ops team do their thing.

He had listened to Mycroft explain to Anthea his theory as to whom the horse box belonged. The Google search had confirmed that Wendy Burrows was, indeed, a racehorse trainer based in Middleham. A quick check with Wetherby's had confirmed that Miss Burrow's racing livery was two-tone, Sky and Royal Blue, which matched the description of the horse box given by Josie Brocklehurst. The address and location of her racing yard had been ascertained and a small Special Ops unit had been dispatched to recce the location, looking for any indications that Moran might be holed up there, with or without his hostage.

John had protested that he should be allowed to go with them but Mycroft was adamant that, until they knew for certain that they had the correct location, involvement was to be kept ultra-low key – two men on a 'cycling holiday', stopping to ask directions.

'And even then, John, I would be loath to involve you in any active participation in the operation. I don't doubt your proven military record but you were never trained in Black Ops. You would be too much of a liability. Also, I suspect your wife would sue me for negligence, should anything untoward occur.'

On arrival at the hospital, John and Anthea waited in the Main Reception area while Mycroft went up to the Observation Ward to which Arthur had been moved, pending his Psych Consult. His system was now clear of all foreign substances so he was no longer in need of intensive care but he had been placed in a side ward so that the psychiatric assessment could be conducted in private.

When Mycroft arrived on the main ward, he approached the nurses' station and identified himself. He was directed to Arthur's room, which he hoped was an indication that his fiancé was sanguine about him being present for the assessment. However, he knew better than to pre-judge. He entered the room to find Arthur sitting up in bed, looking a lot more like his normal self. He didn't flinch or look away, at least, though neither did he smile.

'Thank you for all of that,' Arthur said, foregoing any sort of greeting and inclining his head toward a collection of shopping bags parked in one corner of the room.

'I hope I didn't forget anything,' Mycroft replied.

'No, you remembered everything – even my favourite toothpaste.'

Mycroft nodded, with a slight pursing of the lips that might have been an attempt at a smile.

'Arthur…'

'Mycroft…'

They both spoke at the same time and both stopped speaking, too.

'After you,' Mycroft said, softly, standing a few feet from the bed, hands folded together in front of him, ignoring the two easy chairs.

'Mycroft, I know this has been hard for you and that it still is. I wish I could say that I don't believe any of the things I saw on those DVD's but the truth is, I just don't know what to believe. I don't know what is real and what is a clever illusion. And, until I do, I really need to keep my distance.'

Mycroft nodded but kept his thoughts to himself.

'I am grateful for the clothes and all the toiletries. That was very thoughtful of you. And I'm thankful that you've arranged for me to be treated at St Hugh's. I never would have been sent there, but for you exercising your authority.'

Mycroft acknowledged the thanks but still said nothing.

'And I can't begin to tell you what it means to me that you are allowing me to see the children…'

'I thought I might bring them to St Hugh's tomorrow, once you're settled in,' Mycroft interjected and Arthur nodded his appreciation.

'But, after that, I really need some space, some distance, some time to myself, so I can try and sort out my head. I hope you understand.'

Mycroft waited to see if Arthur had anything more to say but, when it became clear he did not, he spoke.

'I do understand, Arthur. I won't press you on my own behalf but I hope you will stay in contact with the children, especially Charlie. He misses you terribly.'

'I miss him, too,' Arthur gasped. 'I miss you all but…I can't go there, not just now.'

'Of course not. I understand. We'll be patient, I promise.'

'So, Mycroft, I'm sorry but I really don't want you here for the Psych Consult.' Arthur looked down at his hands, unable to meet the other man's eyes, too aware of the hurt that he knew he would see there.

After a long silence, Mycroft replied,

'Very well, Arthur, I accept your conditions. I won't wait for the results. I'll leave instructions that, when you're ready to be discharged, you will be flown by Air Ambulance to St Hugh's and, if they will inform me when you have arrived, I'll arrange for the children's visit. I will need to be present for that,' he added. 'They might need my support.'

'Yes, absolutely,' Arthur agreed, feeling on the verge of tears and wishing that Mycroft would leave before he lost his resolve.

'I will go now,' Mycroft announced and, after a very brief hesitation, turned and left the room.

As he approached the Nurses' Station, he met the Consultant Psychiatrist and his entourage on their way to see Arthur.

'Oh, this is Mr Holmes, Mr Brocklehurst's fiancé,' the Ward Sister explained to the doctor.

'How is the patient?' the doctor asked, with a patronising smile.

'I would imagine that that was for you to ascertain, doctor,' Mycroft replied, rather acerbically, still stinging from Arthur's plea. 'You have my instructions. Once you've made your diagnosis and formulated your recommendations, contact my PA and she will arrange the transfer of the patient to the specialist unit that has agreed to provide treatment. Good day.'

With that, he by-passed the group of people with shock etched in every line of every face, and strode out of the ward.

ooOoo


	42. Stolen Chapter Forty One

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Forty One**

Sherlock was rudely awoken by the sound of his bedroom door being thrown open and a gruff voice barking,

'On your feet! We're leaving!'

He rolled over, languidly, and sat up, blinking at the guard who had become his near constant companion.

'It's still light outside. I thought we were leaving after dark?'

'Change of plan. Get your boots and jacket on and come with me.'

'I suppose a visit to the loo is out of the question?' Sherlock enquired, yawning and stretching.

'If you need to piss, do it now. We have a long journey and we won't be stopping on the way,' came the abrupt reply.

With a petulant huff, Sherlock stood up and strolled to the bathroom, locking the door before using the toilet. He didn't really need to pee but he needed time to think. They were leaving early - his watch read four o'clock - so they must have rumbled his coded message to Mycroft via Molly. That was a little inconvenient. If they had figured out the first part, perhaps they had worked out the rest, too. Potentially, this could scupper his plans but he shrugged off that thought and, as he zipped up his fly and moved to the basin to wash his hands, he gazed at his face in the mirror.

'Oh, well, onwards and upwards,' he sighed, flushed the toilet, dried his hands and exited the bathroom.

'You'll need one of these,' the guard snapped, tossing over a balaclava, which Sherlock caught deftly and stuffed in his trouser pocket before sitting on the bed to put on his newly acquired boots and tie the laces. Standing up again, he picked up the combat jacket from the bottom of the bed and preceded the guard out through the bedroom door. Truly, the Game was now on.

ooOoo

In his hospital room, Arthur had just finished speaking to the Consultant Psychiatrist, who had rather predictably suggested that he was high risk for PTSD and should be treated by specialists in that syndrome. He had, therefore, sanctioned Arthur's discharge from Tameside on the understanding that he be referred to a suitable unit as soon as possible. The Ward sister wasted no time in calling the number she had been given and was answered by Anthea's calm, clipped tones. The PA informed the nurse that an Air Ambulance would be dispatched, immediately, to collect Arthur within the hour and transport him to St Hugh's.

Arthur was alone with his thoughts. He got out of bed and crossed the room to retrieve the shopping bags that had been delivered to the hospital earlier in the afternoon. He upended each bag in turn, dumping the contents on the bed – boxers, socks, two T-shirts, jeans, a lightweight jacket and a pair of trainers. Slowly, he dressed himself, snapping off the price tags and labels as he went and stuffing the rubbish into the empty bags. He collected the toiletries from the en suite shower room, in the toilet bag that Mycroft had included in the shopping list. Shampoo, shower gel, toothpaste and brush, mouthwash, deodorant, shaving foam and razor, hair gel and comb, and his favourite brand of cologne – yes, Mycroft had thought of everything.

He turned, at last, to the final shopping bag – a small one, from an exclusive jewellery company. He held the package in his hand for quite some time before finding the courage to open it. He was both astonished and a little dismayed when he discovered what the package held. It was a Breitling Transocean gentleman's watch, the latest model. The price tag had been removed but Arthur knew that these watches retailed for around four thousand pounds, in the United Kingdom.

He sat down on the bed, staring at the watch in his hand, before closing the box and putting it back in the bag. He couldn't accept such a gift, not yet, not while he was so unsure about so many things. Could this be a bribe, a persuader, or a very generous gift and a declaration of love? That was the root of the problem. He just did not know.

ooOoo

In the absence of a helipad, the helicopter carrying Mycroft, Anthea and John lifted off from the grounds of Tameside Hospital and headed due south at the beginning of its ninety minute journey to the City Airport in London. The three passengers sat side by side, each engaged with their own thoughts. Mycroft was still mulling over Sherlock's cryptic message to Molly and deliberately putting thoughts of Arthur out of his mind. John was looking forward to seeing his wife and child again but also concerned for his friend. Anthea was in communication with Agent Delaney, awaiting an update on the recce of the racing yard in Middleham.

Mycroft had solved Sherlock's little puzzle easily enough by looking at the satellite view of Leinster Gardens. From that perspective, it was immediately obvious that Nos 23 and 24 were merely facades, only a few feet deep, concealing the tracks of the Circle and District Underground Railway lines. A 'nice little place', indeed!

The master strategist would have very much liked to evacuate a stretch of Leinster Gardens of all civilians and place armed Special Ops personnel in strategic positions along the street, behind perimeter walls, in front bedrooms and on roof tops. Unfortunately, that was impractical, so he had to settle for snipers on the roof tops and other personnel sitting in the backs of white vans, which were ubiquitous on the streets of every town or city in the UK, so would attract little attention.

He had no idea how large a force Moran was planning to bring to the party so he had gone for overkill, with approximately forty well-trained, well-disciplined individuals on the ground. There was always a risk of civilian casualties, where such operations were concerned, but these men and women were veterans of action in the urban centres of trouble hot spots all over the world and, so far, their record in that department was near perfect. Mycroft trusted that this night would not result in any collateral damage.

By the time the helicopter landed in London, the scene would be set, just waiting for the curtain to rise. But the last two lines of Sherlock's email were still puzzling the Iceman. 'Much love, as always, Sherly xxx.' That was so out of character, it had to be significant. The best cryptographers available had been working on those words for several hours and had so far only succeeded in ruling out a number of Alphanumeric codes, a variety of skip codes and a whole host of anagrams in the many languages Sherlock was known to speak.

Mycroft ruminated on those five words and three symbols, applying his personal knowledge of his brother's thought processes, trying to find the key that would unlock their hidden meaning. Time was running out and his brother's life may well depend on him getting this right.

ooOoo

'I may be an idiot in your opinion, Mr Holmes, but I'm not completely stupid. That email of yours was clearly a coded message, just as the one before had been. It took my IT Tech no time at all to work out what it meant.'

Sherlock affected an air of bored indifference. They were travelling south on the A1(M) in a metallic black Volkswagon Touareg, with dark tinted windows. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the back seat, in between two burley bruisers, feeling squashed despite the generous dimensions of the vehicle. Moran, sitting beside the driver Mick Robinson, turned to leer at his passenger.

'I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Moran. I sent my wife an email. She worries about me – and not without just cause. The rest is a product of your ridiculous James Bond delusion,' he drawled, turning his head, ostentatiously, in a vain attempt to escape the body odour of the man on his left.

'So your brother won't have the streets of Bayswater staked out when we arrive then?'

'Bayswater? Why do you imagine we are going to Bayswater?' Sherlock asked, his brow crinkling with curiosity.

'Oh, Mr Holmes, you should be on the stage! You are such a comedian,' Moran barked with laughter and turned back to look at the road ahead.

Sherlock settled into his seat and hoped that Mycroft had read the message right. Had he been too cryptic? He had never yet outwitted his brother when it came to hidden meaning. Now was no time for a pyrrhic victory.

ooOoo

Two cyclists turned into the car park of the racing yard run by Wendy Burrows and drew to a halt, disengaging the clips on their cycling shoes from the pedals of their road bikes and dismounting. They both leaned their bikes against the gate post and removed their helmets, running their hands through their sweat-slicked hair. One of them unclipped his mobile phone from the holder attached to the handlebars of his bike and held it up in the air, turning in a circle, scanning for a signal.

While this ritual had been panning out, a woman had appeared, through the stone-built arch that led from the car park to the stable yard, and approached the two men, asking in a broad Yorkshire accent,

'Can I 'elp you gents?'

'Oh, hi, yes! Sorry to intrude but we seem to be lost. Our Sat Nav runs off my phone signal but the reception round here is pretty useless. We seem to have taken the wrong turn somewhere.'

By the time the man had said his piece, the woman was standing right in front of him, smiling sympathetically.

'Oh, we get a lot of lost tourists around 'ere, mostly cyclist, like yourselves, but also a lot of Americans. They come 'ere for the history – medieval castles and ancient Viking burial mounds and whatnot, y'know. So, where are you lads 'eadin'?'

'We're trying to get to Hawes, in the Yorkshire Dales. We're planning to follow the route of the Tour de France, though not as fast as those guys!'

'Oh, well, you're not so far out of your way. I can draw you a map, if you like.

'Oh, we've got a OS map,' the second man piped up. 'If you could just show us where we are now, on our map, that would be really helpful.'

He went to his bike and pulled an Ordinance Survey map out of one of the paniers, slung either side of the rear wheel. Looking around for somewhere to open the map out, he spotted the black SUV parked in the far corner of the car park and strode towards it. The woman followed and, in doing so, failed to notice the first man take a photo of the SUV, on his mobile phone, and send it in a text to the contact number he had been given.

The text alert on Anthea's phone pinged and she opened the message. Turning to her left, she nudged John Watson on the arm and showed him the photo of the SUV. He looked at it closely and then nodded his agreement. He was sure it was the same one that he had seen at the deserted hospital the night before. Anthea showed the photo to Mycroft, next, and he nodded. She forwarded it to Agent Delaney, along with the message, 'Send in the clowns'.

Mycroft sat back in his seat, considering the ramifications of this new information. If Moran and his men were still in situ, in the Yorkshire Dales, they could wrap this up without having to risk the safely of the good citizens of Bayswater. But he could not afford to make that assumption yet. So, the London operation was still on the cards and he still needed to crack Sherlock's code. He resumed his mental dissection of the email message and hoped for a flash of inspiration.

ooOoo

**Many thanks to Sherlockology for the details about Leinster Gardens and to my son, an avid cyclist, for the cycling knowledge.**

**BTW - Someone asked me a while ago which actor I would like to play Arthur, if he was a real canon character. Well, I have found the very person! Iwan Rheon IS the Arthur in my head, apart from being about 5 inches too short. So, Moftiss, when you shoot my episode, you know who to cast! (If only!)**


	43. Stolen Chapter Forty Two

**Chapter Forty Two**

After a four hour drive, the car carrying Sherlock, Colonel Moran, and his close protection personnel approached the slip road to the London Gateway Service Area, on the M1 motorway. At a subtle signal from Moran, the car took the exit and negotiated its way to a remote part of the car park, where it pulled into a parking space and stopped.

Sherlock, who had spent most of the journey in his Mind Palace, looked around at the sparse vegetation bordering the tarmac wasteland and said,

'Oh, are we having a pit stop? Good-oh! I could use a trip to the Gents.'

'No, Mr Holmes, this is not a pit stop, although if you are in need, feel free to irrigate the bushes,' Moran replied, acerbically. 'You do seem to have a bit of a bladder problem, though. When this is all over, you should have your prostate checked.'

'Rather not discuss that, if it's all the same to you,' Sherlock replied, wrinkling his nose at the very idea. 'So, why have we stopped?'

'We're waiting for sunset. It will be dark in about an hour and then we can continue our journey.'

Sherlock shrugged - as much as he was able, due to the broad shoulders of his back seat companions – and gazed nonchalantly through the tinted windows. Each occupied with his own thoughts, assuming they were all capable of coherent thought, though Sherlock had his doubts where his two wing men were concerned, the five occupants of the car sat in silence, until Moran's text alert sounded and broke the mood. He extracted the phone from his breast pocket and checked the message.

'Are you sure we aren't going to Bayswater, Mr Holmes?'

'Quite sure,' Sherlock replied.

'Then perhaps you can explain why my people have intercepted an extraordinary amount of encrypted radio traffic in and around Leinster Gardens, in Bayswater,' the Colonel declared, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

'Ah, yes, I believe I can explain that,' Sherlock replied, with a self-satisfied grin. 'I would call that a diversion.'

'Explain?'

'Well, I assumed that my wife would pass on my message to Mycroft. She doesn't see him in quite the same light as I do. But then, she hasn't had to put up with his interference as long as I have. I knew she would tell him about our little place in Bayswater and that he would act on that information. I imagine that Leinster Gardens is sewn up pretty tight, by now.'

'So how can we go there to retrieve your memory stick?' Moran demanded, feeling thoroughly sick and tired of Sherlock Holmes and his whimsical nature.

'Colonel, have you been listening to me? We are not going to Bayswater. I sent my brother there to keep him occupied while we go and collect what we came for _from somewhere else_.' Sherlock enunciated the last three words as though talking to a child.

Demeaned in this way, in front of his men, was an insult too far for Moran. He shot a look at the man on Sherlock's right, who opened the rear passenger door on his side and stepped out of the car. As Sherlock turned his head to watch the man exit the vehicle, grateful for the extra space this afforded but apprehensive about what this abrupt departure might presage, he was knocked sideways by Mr BO, on his left, and found himself pinned down on the back seat, with the man's forearm pressing hard on his trachea, crushing his airway. As he stared into the grim face of his assailant, a fist of stone thudded into his ribs once, twice, a third time, forcing the air from his lungs.

Sherlock's left arm was trapped between him and the man on top but he managed to get his other hand to the man's wrist and pushed hard, in an attempt to relieve the pressure on his throat. However, the heavy's full weight was behind that forearm and there was no shifting it. As the pressure built inside his head, Sherlock felt his eyes begin to bulge and his tongue start to protrude from his mouth. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the blind panic he felt as he slowly asphyxiated. He began to descend into blackness but the pressure was suddenly released and the other man sat back, opened the car door and climbed out, leaving Sherlock collapsed across the plush upholstery, coughing and gasping for air.

It took a while for him to recover sufficiently to push himself up to sitting, during which time he tried to carry out an internal scan of possible injuries to his ribs, his internal organs and his windpipe. Despite the release of pressure, the pain in his throat was still intense and the coughing did not help. He opened his eyes to find that he and Moran were now alone in the car, the driver having departed at some point during the last few minutes. The two back seat trolls were standing behind the vehicle, smoking.

Sherlock's cigarettes and lighter were in one of his trouser pockets but he somehow thought that smoking would be a bad choice of activity, just now, considering the state of his airways.

Moran was grinning at him and holding out a bottle of water. Sherlock took it grudgingly and unscrewed the lid, taking a swig. To swallow was agony and made him cough again. He tried to curse, but his voice came out as a strangled wheeze – strangled being the operative word. He took another swig, instead.

'I don't know if anyone has ever told you, Mr Holmes, but you can be an annoying little shit,' Moran growled. 'That was just a little hint that my patience may be wearing thin. I've sent my driver off to get us all some coffee – black, two sugars, for you – and to give us a few moments alone for this little chat.'

Sherlock stared back at the man, hugging his ribs with the arm not engaged in holding the water bottle, and took a third swig of the cool water. Moran must have a mini-fridge in here somewhere, he thought, unable to curtail his deductive tendencies, even in such dire circumstances.

'So, if we aren't going to Bayswater, where are we going?' Moran enquired, nonchalantly.

Sherlock tried to speak again but his vocal chords were still compromised and the coughing brought on by the effort only made the sharp pain in his ribs more excruciating. He drank more water.

'Well, at least I've shut you up for the time being,' Moran chortled. Reaching forward, he opened the glove compartment under the dashboard and took out a notebook and pen, which he passed to his passenger in the back seat.

'Here, write it down,' he ordered.

Sherlock took the pad and pen and wrote down the postcode and house number of their destination then passed it back to Moran, who looked at it and frowned.

'And this is where?' he asked, not being familiar with the post code areas of London.

Sherlock took back the pad and pen and wrote the name of the area.

'Oh, Belgravia!' Moran exclaimed. 'Nice! And that is your secret hiding place, is it?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'Well. I look forward to seeing it. Ah, and here's the refreshments,' he commented, as Robinson climbed back into the driver's seat, having given two coffees to the men outside. He gave one to Moran, handed one back to Sherlock and took the last one for himself.

The Consulting Detective took a sip of the hot liquid, leaned back against the head rest and closed his eyes. He had pushed Moran's buttons once too often and paid the price but, in doing so, he thought he might have just persuaded Moran that he was sufficiently cowed not to try anything smart. And that he was on the level and seriously intent on double crossing his brother. Over to you, now, Mycroft, he thought. Please don't let me down.

ooOoo

The helicopter had no sooner touched down at the City Airport in London than the doors were thrown open and the passengers disembarked to transfer to a staff car and be transported to Mycroft's office in Whitehall. John was still adamant that he wanted to take some sort of active role in the events about to unfold. Truth be told, he was feeling a little like a spare part. He was particularly irritated that he had known absolutely nothing about his friend's little pied a terre in Bayswater. He sometimes wondered whether he actually knew Sherlock at all.

'Don't take it personally, John,' Mycroft advised him. 'Sherlock likes to play his cards close to his chest. I don't think anyone, not even Molly, is fully in his confidence. He has never trusted anyone, entirely. You really should be honoured that he allows you as much access as he does.'

Strangely, John did not find any of that remotely comforting.

'If I can't participate, I might as well not be here,' John chuntered.

'Then why not go home and relax?' Mycroft suggested. 'Or, alternately, I could arrange transport for you to Colbert House. You could take care of the ladies and the children, there.'

The prospect of seeing Mary and Lily Rose, not to mention Molly and the Hooper-Holmes children, was tempting but he was loath to leave the scene of the action.

'I'll go to Baker Street and wait there. Just keep me in the loop, will you? And if there should be anything I can do, please let me know,' he insisted. Mycroft instructed the driver to take John on to Baker Street after delivering him and his PA to their destination.

He and Anthea entered the building and made straight for the Incident Room set aside for managing this operation. Agent Delaney was still at his post. No one asked whether he had slept at all since the balloon went up but, had they done so, he would have advised them that he had, on a folding cot, in one of the side rooms.

'Our personnel are in position in and around Leinster Gardens, sir,' Delaney stated, as Mycroft and Anthea entered the room.

Mycroft nodded. It was nothing less than he expected.

'Is there any news from North Yorkshire?' Anthea enquired.

'We are just receiving reports for the Middleham team,' Delaney replied. 'Apparently the place is well fortified, with all manner of security technology, but there is hardly anyone there. The losses they suffered at the old hospital last night must have made quite a dent in their resources.'

'Or they have already dispatched a large contingent down here for tonight's little party,' Mycroft suggested.

'That is entirely possible, sir. Either way, there was only a skeleton crew at the house and they were easily over-whelmed,' Delaney advised.

'And was Moran amongst them?' asked Mycroft.

'No, sir. Neither he nor Alpha Alpha were in situ. But there was evidence to suggest that he had been there,' Delaney added.

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow in response to that nugget of information.

'Yes, sir, the team found some personal items in one of the bedrooms that I have identified as belonging to your brother. His clothes, sir.'

Mycroft found that revelation a little worrying. Knowing how particular Sherlock was about his appearance, he could not imagine him giving up his clothes that easily. Unless he was in disguise. That thought snuck into the Holmsian forebrain unbidden and struck a chord with the last part of Sherlock's email to Molly.

'Sherly xxx'.

Could that be his brother's way of telling them that he was not 'himself' or in some way not looking like himself? 'Sherlock X' might not have looked so out of place to Molly but 'Sherly xxx' certainly aroused suspicions that something was not as it should be.

'I think he must be dressed in combat gear, like one of them,' Mycroft declared.

This would make things rather complicated if the operation degenerated into a fire fight. It would make Sherlock so much harder to spot amongst all the other combatants. No doubt that was Moran's intention. The irony of the Colonel's hostage being the victim of friendly fire was not lost on the Iceman.

But Sherlock must have realised this and made a contingency plan. Mycroft needed to see the original copy of his brother's email – not just the words but the actual script. He must scrutinise it for any odd phrasing that might hold hidden meaning that he had not yet discerned.

Taking out his phone, he called Molly's mobile and was answered almost immediately.

'No, my dear, no news yet, not any that I can divulge, anyway, for reasons of security,' he replied to her whispered plea for information.

'What I need, dear lady, is for you forward to me the email that you received today. I need to see the original text. Could you do that, Molly dear?'

She obviously said yes because he nodded and gave a thin smile, saying,

'As soon as I have any information, you will be the first to know, I do assure you.'

Mycroft hung up and then opened the email app on his phone. The alert sounded immediately and he opened the message, walked to a quiet corner of the room and sat down to study the text in relative peace and solitude.

ooOoo

Molly sent off the email to Mycroft then put her phone back in the pocket of her cargo pants. She caught Mary's eye, across the Summer Drawing Room, where they were sitting waiting for the dinner gong, and gave a slight shake of her head. William looked up from his tablet and furrowed his brow. Mummy was very worried about Daddy, he knew.

Daddy had not phoned or texted since last night. That was most unusual. Uncle Arthur, he knew, was safe now. Mummy had told Katy and Charlie that they would be able to see their Poppah the next day but she had said nothing about _his_ Daddy. So he was obviously not helping Uncle Arthur any more. Auntie Mary had spoken to Uncle John earlier today, so Daddy wasn't with him, either. Mummy always worried about Daddy more when he was on his own.

William looked at Freddie sitting cross-legged on the rug with Lily Rose and his cousins, watching a cartoon dvd on the TV in the corner. His little brother did not seem worried but he wasn't really old enough to notice when Mummy was upset, she was so good at hiding it. Violet, who was asleep upstairs in her travel cot, was missing Daddy too, but she wasn't old enough to be worried about him, either. So, he must keep his concerns to himself and not give Mummy any more worry.

ooOoo


	44. Stolen Chapter Forty Three

**There is a very brief reference to sexual deviancy in this chapter.**

**Chapter Forty Three**

Arthur stood at the window of his room at St Hugh's, looking out at the parkland that surrounded the building. He felt rather disorientated, being back here but on the other side of the counter, so to speak. When he arrived, he had been greeted like a long-lost friend by his old colleagues – the Administrator, on Reception, the porter who took him to his room, the nurse who had carried out his Admission Medical. He knew them all and they knew him but he felt distanced from them. He almost wished he was somewhere else, even though he knew this was the best place he could be.

He heard the door lock disengage and turned to see who was entering.

'Hello, Arthur. It's good to see you, again, though the circumstances could be better.'

'Dr Matthews,' he replied. 'I might have guessed it would be you.'

'Mycroft insisted,' she replied.

Arthur nodded and walked over to the bed but remained standing until Eve Matthews had seated herself on the sofa, opposite, then he sat down.

'This is just an informal chat, today. I think you need to settle in and get used to the idea of being here as a patient before we start your debrief.'

Arthur gave a sardonic huff of amusement. Yes, that's what this was, a debriefing. He had been captured by the enemy, tortured and interrogated. And brain-washed, too? Quite possibly. So, that's how he should think of this. In a strange way, that made it easier to accept. He suddenly felt a whole lot better about being at the clinic. She was very good at her job, Dr Matthews.

'How are you feeling – physically, I mean? I've read your notes from Tameside. Your injuries, are they painful?' the doctor asked.

'Only when I laugh,' he replied, which made her smile.

'Well,' she said, 'it's good to see you still have your sense of humour.'

'My back is a bit sore from the bruising but I have pain killers for that - Ibuprofen 400mg, every eight hours. No obvious internal damage – no blood in my urine or any liver dysfunction. They gave me a CT scan at Tameside, just to be on the safe side. Everything looked normal. The psychotropic drugs I was given during my incarceration have been metabolised or neutralised. Either way, my system is clear of them now.'

'Any flashbacks?'

'Not yet,' he replied. 'I'll have to keep you posted on that front.'

This felt comfortable. He found solace in professionalism. Talking about himself as a patient made it easier to be objective but he knew this was a cul de sac, as far as his treatment was concerned. He couldn't remain detached. At some point, he had to face his demons. He had to deal with the emotional shock of discovering that the person he loved most in all the world might just be a monster, a deviant, a sexual predator and a paedophile.

At that thought, he grimaced and folded in upon himself, wringing his hands in anguish.

Eve Matthews' voice was soft and soothing.

'It's OK, Arthur, don't fight it. Just let it out. Internalising it will only make it more potent.'

'I know,' he groaned. 'I know it will. But I'm not ready yet. Tomorrow, like you said, I'll be ready, then.'

'Quite right,' the doctor said, standing up and crossing to the bed to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'I'll leave you in peace, now. Try to rest. You've been through the mill and it will take a while for your body to fully recover. I'll see you in the morning.'

He nodded in acquiescence and she walked to the door, tapping to be let out, and leaving him alone with his thoughts. He lay back on the bed, closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing.

ooOoo

Mycroft read and reread Sherlock's email to Molly, scrutinizing every word, every punctuation mark, every line break, in the light of his knowledge of his brother's thought processes. Sherlock liked words. He used words with precision. He had chosen these particular words with care to convey a message. But which were the most important words and what was that message?

'_My darling Molly_'

That was a call to attention. His use of the term of endearment had alerted Molly immediately that this email was written under duress and was, therefore, likely to contain hidden meaning.

'_I am so very sorry to have kept you in the dark. _'

Mycroft had identified the phrase 'in the dark' as the most significant in that sentence but it would appear that the party had departed from Middleham in broad daylight, so perhaps he had been mistaken in that assumption. Or perhaps Moran changed his plans, brought their departure forward. Maybe Moran cracked that part of the code, too.

'_I've made a deal that will free me from Mycroft's yoke forever._

This sentence was very odd. 'I have made a deal' – yes he had made a deal with Moran to free Arthur and Josie. He had already stated that, in previous communications. Why was he reiterating it here? Just for emphasis, perhaps, to remind the reader that he was playing a game with the Colonel? 'Mycroft's yoke' was obviously a nod toward the premise on which that deal was based – evoking the familiar spirit of the Holmes brothers' difficult relationship.

Or was it?

Mycroft was suddenly reminded of one of Sherlock's pet insults, aimed at an enterprise very close to his older brother's heart. Not Mycroft's _yoke_ but Mycroft's _joke_.

Putting this phrase back into the context of the whole sentence, focusing his attention from a different angle, he read 'free me from Mycroft's _joke_' and the penny finally dropped.

The next sentence, he knew, he had interpreted correctly,

'_Soon we'll be able to take that nice little place in Bayswater, just us and the boys._'

There was just one small detail that he'd misunderstood - the identity of 'just us and the boys'. He got that, now.

'_Much love, as always_

_Sherly xxx_ '

He was absolutely certain he had that right. Sherlock would be dressed like one of Moran's men - most definitely not 'as always' - which would make him hard to distinguish and, therefore, very vulnerable.

Mycroft looked at the wall clock. This epiphany had come very late in the day. Time was short. He needed to act quickly.

ooOoo

John Watson let himself into 221 Baker Street and walked down the hall to tap on Mrs Hudson's door.

'Oh, hello, dear,' she greeted him, turning to lead him into the kitchen. 'Is it all sorted? Have you found poor Arthur?'

'Yes, Mrs H, Arthur is safe. He's a bit worse for wear but he's being taken care of,' Joh replied, sitting at the kitchen table while Mrs H put the kettle on and set up the tea tray.

'And where's Sherlock? Is he with Arthur?'

'Er, no. We don't exactly know where Sherlock is but we think he may be on his way back to London or, at least, about to set off back here.'

Mrs Hudson turned to stare at John.

'Something happened, didn't it,' she declared.

'Yes, I'm afraid it did. Sherlock exchanged himself for Arthur so now he is being held by the kidnappers instead.'

'Oh, dear,' Mrs Hudson sighed. 'Honestly, that man! Was it the only way to free Arthur?'

'Erm, probably not. But, you know Sherlock. He likes to do thing his own way.'

'Yes, he always has. Poor Molly! And the children! They must be worried sick!'

'Yes, I'm sure they are. Mary has gone to keep Molly company until it's all over.'

'John, you should know better. It will never be 'all over', as long as Sherlock Holmes has breath in his body. That man is irresistibly drawn to dangerous situations, like a moth to a flame. Molly would have to handcuff him to the bedpost to keep him out of trouble…Actually, that could be a whole different kind of trouble,' she added, with a girlish giggle.

'Mrs H!' John exclaimed.

'Oh, sorry, dear, I forgot you were a bit straight-laced. Here, drink your tea. It'll make you feel better.'

She poured a cup of tea for her guest and placed it on the table in front of him before sitting down opposite and pouring herself a cup.

'So, do you have a plan to rescue him?' she asked.

'Personally, no, but we think _he_ has a plan. Mycroft is working on that side of things. Tell me, Mrs H, did Sherlock ever mention to you anything about a secret hideout he has in Bayswater?'

Mrs Hudson wrinkled her brow as she searched her memory for any references Sherlock might have made to Bayswater but drew a blank.

'No, dear, I can't say he did. But I wouldn't put it past him. He has secret places dotted about everywhere.'

'Does he?'

'Oh, yes! Didn't he ever tell you about his hidey-hole behind the clock face in the Queen Elizabeth Tower?'

'No, not that I recall. Are you sure he wasn't just pulling your leg about that?'

'Oh, no, dear, definitely not,' Mrs Hudson replied, adamantly, and returned to sipping her tea.

'Well, anyway, apparently he does have a secret bolt hole in Bayswater and that is where he is taking his kidnappers – or so we think. We only have a very cryptic email to go by. So, Mycroft has the place staked out, waiting for him to show up. I'm not sure I should be telling you all this, actually,' John said, and shut up, abruptly.

'Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I've been around Sherlock Holmes long enough to know when to keep shtum about something,' the wiley old lady assured him. 'So, are you sure he's not bringing them back here? Because, if they are, I think I'd rather not be here.'

'That might not be a bad idea, actually. Perhaps you should go and visit your sister?' John suggested.

'I think my sister is a bit fed up of me suddenly turning up at her house, unannounced,' she sighed. 'No, I think I'll nip round to Mrs Turner's. She's always glad of the company, now that her married ones have moved out. Her new lodgers aren't nearly so friendly as those boys were. Yes, I'll take myself off there. Just you let me know when it's safe to come back, will you?'

'Of course, Mrs H,' John assured her.

He was just draining his first cup of the brew and eyeing Mrs Hudson's teapot, in the hope of a second, when his mobile phone rang and he took it out to see that the call was from Mycroft.

'Oh, here we go,' he said and answered the call.

'John, I have need of your assistance,' Mycroft stated, without preamble. 'I need you to be in the control vehicle in Bayswater, watching the CCTV images.'

'Really? For what purpose?' John asked, sceptically.

'You can recognise Sherlock by his body language, I trust?'

'Er, probably,' John replied, his interest slightly piqued.

'Good, because I believe he will be wearing combat gear and I need someone to ID him so that our operatives don't shoot him by mistake.'

'I'll be right there,' John replied.

'I've sent a car. It should be with you very soon,' Mycroft confirmed and rang off.

ooOoo

The Volkswagen Touareg pulled into the curb, several yards down the road from its actual destination.

'What is that place?' Moran asked.

In a voice little more than a harsh whisper, Sherlock replied, 'It's a private club.'

ooOoo

**Couldn't resist borrowing Mrs Hudson's comment about the Big Ben clock tower! Thanks, Moftiss.**


	45. Stolen Chapter Forty Four

**A little bit of Anglo-Saxon cursing in this chapter!**

**Chapter Forty Four**

'What sort of private club?'

'A private gentleman's club.'

'And the memory stick is in there?'

'Yes.'

'Where in there?'

'In a locker.'

Moran was wary. He didn't feel comfortable about walking into a strange place, not knowing what to expect. He needed more information.

'What locker?'

'Give me the pad and pen,' Sherlock hissed, finding speech exceedingly painful and concerned about what further damage he may be causing by speaking.

Moran obliged and waited as Sherlock scribbled furiously on the pad and then showed him the page. He read:

'_Members have private lockers. I am a member. Memory stick in my locker.'_

'And where is this damn locker?' Moran demanded, more forcefully.

'_LOCKER ROOM'_ he wrote and underlined it three times.

'Don't push your luck further than you have already, Mr Holmes. Now we know where the evidence is to be found, your usefulness is somewhat diminished,' Moran growled.

Sherlock gave him a withering look then scribbled on the pad, once more.

'_PRIVATE club. Only members and guests of. You need me to GET IN.'_

'Not necessarily,' Moran replied, 'but I suppose to do it with the least amount of fuss it would be easier with you than without. OK, where is this locker room?'

More scribbling

'_Come in. I'll show you.'_

'Actually, I don't think I will, thank you. My men will come in with you, see that you don't try anything silly. I'll wait here,' he said, with a self-satisfied smirk. 'When you're ready…' he added and left that sentence hanging in the air.

Sherlock scribbled something else and showed it to the men either side, hoping that they could actually read.

'_No talking AT ALL. IT'S THE CLUB RULE.'_

Moran looked at the instruction, too.

'No talking at all? What sort of crazy rule is that?'

'_Don't like, don't join,'_ Sherlock wrote and showed it to the Colonel before pushing the pad and pen into his trouser pocket and turning to the man on his left, giving him a nudge to indicate he was ready to go.

As he strode along the pavement toward the main entrance to the Diogenes Club, Sherlock experienced a rare sensation – a feeling of doubt. If Mycroft had not correctly interpreted his coded message, these could be the last moments of his life. He had no ace in the hole, there was no Get Out of Gaol card. He had gambled everything on his belief in his brother's deductive powers. He was about to discover whether his trust was misplaced.

He turned the handle and pushed open the imposing front door, turning to his companions and placing his index finger on his lips, to remind them not to speak. If either one of these Neanderthals was to utter a single syllable, the game might well be up. He really needed to get them through the public areas and into the private room at the back as quickly and quietly as possible.

The trio stepped over the threshold into the foyer and Sherlock took all his doubts and concerns, stuffed them into a cupboard in his Mind Palace, and locked the door. He led the way across the elaborately tiled floor and turned right into a short corridor which opened onto and passed through the Reading Room.

In this long, narrow, wood panelled salon, a row of identical wing chairs, each upholstered in leather, was positioned along each side. Every chair was occupied by its own particular version of Diogenes Man – variations on a theme – each intent on his evening newspaper, each with a post-prandial brandy at his elbow. All the chairs were angled away from the entrance to the room and towards the wall so that none of the occupants were in the direct sight line of any of the others. No one looked up or showed the slightest interest in the newcomers.

Sherlock strode on, through the Reading Room, watching from the corner of his eye as his companions stared with curious incomprehension at this strange collection of artifacts from a bygone era. They cleared the salon and continued down a corridor, which ran the full depth of the building with several closed doors leading off to the left, until they came to a pair of solid oak doors, right at the back of the edifice.

Sherlock turned again and made the 'shush' sign to his guards then pushed open both doors and stepped through into a large, well-proportioned Georgian room, beautifully appointed, with wooden panelling and floorboards, a grand Adam fireplace in the middle of the right hand wall, a Persian rug on the floor, two wing chairs facing one another in the centre of the rug and elegant sideboards around the perimeter. Two large windows on the back wall were dressed with heavy brocade curtains, pulled to against the darkness outside.

Sherlock walked straight into the room, leaving both doors wide open to admit his 'shadows', and crossed to the sideboard positioned between the two windows. Kneeling on the floor, he opened one door of the sideboard to reveal a solid-looking safe with an old-fashioned dial mechanism to the combination lock. As he reached towards the dial, he heard a loud scuffling behind him and turned to see his two burly companions being wrestled to the floor by four equally burly assailants. As he watched, the two men were quickly over-powered, disarmed and handcuffed before being frogmarched away.

He rose to his feet and looked into the face of his brother, sitting quietly in the wingchair with its back to the doorway, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, hands in his lap, fingers plaited together.

'Do sit down, brother dear, before you fall down, you bloody idiot,' Mycroft purred.

'Moran?' Sherlock croaked.

'Oh, don't worry. He won't get far. Sit down, I said! You look half dead!'

Sherlock stumbled to the empty chair and lowered himself, gratefully, into the seat as Mycroft rose, crossed to a side table bearing a decanter and glasses, and poured a stiff whisky, placing it on the small round table beside his brother's chair.

'You've led us a bit of a merry dance, Sherlock,' Mycroft scolded, retaking his seat.

Sherlock gave a small shrug and took a sip of the whisky. It tasted like nectar.

'What's wrong with your voice?' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock put a hand to his throat and mimed squeezing.

'Oh, good lord,' Mycroft sighed. 'You really aren't safe to be let out on the street, are you?'

Sherlock ignored that comment and just sipped his whisky again.

ooOoo

Moran sat in the Touareg, beside his driver, tapping his fingers nervously against his knee. His men had been gone for only five minutes but it seemed like an age. The building into which they had disappeared showed absolutely no signs of life – no sound, no movement, no lights – but something about the situation just didn't seem right. The hairs were standing up on the back of his neck and he had always trusted his instincts.

He looked at the illuminated dial of his watch again. Six minutes gone, now. Just how long did it take to open a locker and extract a memory stick? He took out his mobile phone and was about to call his main man on the ground when Mick Robinson suddenly sprang into action. Slamming the vehicle into reverse, he floored the accelerator and gunned the idling engine into powerful motion, executing a faultless hand break turn which gave Moran a new perspective on the street, showing him what Robinson had seen in his rear view mirror. There were a number of men all in black, wearing flak jackets and baseball caps and carrying assault rifles, pouring into the street from a side road, threatening to overwhelm the car.

Robinson switched fluidly to first gear and gunned the engine again, causing the tyres to shriek, as the car gained momentum and careered down Carlton House Terrace, to turn right into Waterloo Place. But both the driver and his passenger could see, well before they got there, that both the 'in' road and the exit were blocked by police vehicles.

'Shit! How the fuck did they know we would be here?' Moran barked, hanging on to the hand hold, above the passenger door to avoid behind thrown around in the speeding car. Robinson drove on to the next junction, Carlton Gardens, desperate to gain access to Pall Mall and make their escape, but there was a police road block there, too. Continuing straight on, Robinson saw he was approaching a dead end – a gated entry into a large park or a garden of some kind.

Rather than slowing down, he changed gear and floored the accelerator again, driving head long at the centre of the double gates. The vehicle hit the gates with a jarring force but the reinforced body and the sheer momentum won the day. The gates sprang open and the car raced through the gap. As they drove, pell mell, through the shrubbery, Moran could make out a large imposing building on his left and an open green space in front. The car charged across the ornamental lawn and met another paved roadway.

As soon as the tyres touched the tarmac and gained purchase, the car shot forward again and, by the time it reached the junction with Marlborough Road, it was traveling at 60 miles per hour. There was no police road block at this T junction and the Touareg took the corner on two wheels, going left and then right, onto The Mall, heading towards Buckingham Palace.

Moran glanced across at his driver and saw that look of grim determination on Mick Robinson's face. He was not going to give up easily, this man. Moran congratulated himself on choosing his staff wisely. Looking back in the direction of travel, the Colonel gritted his teeth, too, as the vehicle raced along, nearing seventy miles per hour, weaving in and out of the relatively thin traffic, heading for the Victoria Memorial roundabout. Most of the other vehicles on the road very wisely pulled into the side and stopped, giving the Touareg priority.

As they came up to the roundabout immediately in front of Buckingham Palace, Robinson turned right towards Constitution Hill, with the intention of picking up the A4 and going East, towards Knightsbridge, but he had underestimated the ingenuity of the forces ranged against him. As they turned onto Constitution Hill, with Buckingham Palace on their left, they were confronted with an array of flashing lights and a solid block of police and army vehicles spread right across the road. Checking his rear view mirror, Robinson saw several more vehicles that had been stationed behind the Memorial move into place, killing any hope of another reverse escape. Rather than drive headlong into the vehicles in the road, the driver hit the brakes and came to a sliding, screaming halt, as smoke rose from the protesting tyres and the pungent smell of burning rubber permeated the interior of the car.

'Sorry, boss,' Robinson muttered as they both stared out of the Touareg at the phalanx of paramilitary personnel approaching along the road, assault rifles all trained on them, through the bullet proof glass of the front windscreen. If even just a few of those weapons fired at once, there was no way the glass would resist the impact. Moran let out a long exhalation of breath, as he finally conceded defeat.

ooOoo

**I hope you enjoyed that - my first car chase! I'm off to London again, this weekend, for my darling boy's birthday. But I will be home on Tuesday and back at the key board again. **


	46. Stolen Chapter Forty Five

**No triggers, folks!**

**Chapter Forty Five**

John Watson had been in the Control Vehicle, parked just around the corner from Leinster Gardens, for what seemed like hours, listening to a load of incomprehensible encoded chatter though a set of head phones and staring at a bank of monitors which all showed a darkened street, from a variety of angles. Except for the occasional passer-by, the street was deserted.

He had almost nodded off a couple of times, through tiredness and inactivity, and was wondering how much longer this waiting would go on when the chatter suddenly became rather animated and the image on one of the monitors changed to an entirely different view. It took him a moment to realise that this was not a new perspective on Leinster Gardens but a different street altogether and it took him another few moments to recognise the new street.

'That's Carlton House Terrace,' he exclaimed. 'Why are we..?' he began but the camera angle changed and a vehicle came into shot, causing the words to dry. The black and white image had no soundtrack and the windows of the vehicle were tinted so there was no way of knowing whether there was anyone inside until the near side rear passenger door opened and a rather large, broad shouldered figure stepped out, followed by a taller but much more slight figure.

As the second passenger stood upright, the far side rear door opened and another thick set man emerged but John barely noticed him as he focused on the slimmer man.

'That's Sherlock! What's he doing there?'

'Are you certain it's him, Dr Watson?' the Operation Coordinator asked him.

'Absolutely,' John replied.

'Scramble to Location B,' the man almost shouted into the microphone of his head set.

Even as he spoke, the images on all the other monitors sprang to life as half a dozen white vans containing Special Ops personnel started their engines and exited the area via the most convenient route. The Control Vehicle did not move, however. It stayed exactly where it was but, as the other vehicles moved off, all the images changed to show a number of locations in and around London W1.

John continued to concentrate on the screen that showed his friend striding along the pavement, flanked by the two men built like WWF wrestlers, up to the grand portico of The Diogenes Club. John was very familiar with that door. He had been summoned there on many an occasion and he had gone there of his own accord a time or two. None of these visits had been particularly enjoyable.

He watched as Sherlock opened the door, turned to his companions and put a finger to his lips. John shook his head at the audacity of the consulting detective. Even in a life and death situation – as this surely was – he could not resist showing his utter contempt for lesser members of humanity. One of these days, Holmes, you will piss off the wrong person, John mused, as the party of three disappeared from view.

'Why aren't we moving?' Dr Watson asked, anxious to be where the action was, especially now that he knew that Sherlock was there, too.

'We don't need to go there,' the OC explained. 'We can direct operations just as well from here and if we start to move we may lose the satellite signal and all our communications would go down.'

John nodded. He could see the sense in that.

The seconds ticked by and the view of the street outside the club remained static and uneventful, in stark contrast to all the other images which showed a variety of police and military vehicles manoeuvring into position at key locations in and around the new Ground Zero, The Diogenes Club. John watched as the area became well and truly locked down.

'Where did all these trucks come from?' he asked the Operation Coordinator.

'St James Park, sir. We received intel regarding an alternative target location. We positioned resources appropriately. Now we have moved them into their active positions.

'So that Volkswagen is boxed in, is it? Can't possibly slip the net?' John probed, seeking confirmation, and shamelessly mixing his metaphors.

'Not unless he can fly,' the other man replied, rather smugly.

A movement in the top left hand corner of the centre screen caught John's eye and he saw a double line of Special Ops personnel appear from one of the side roads and begin to pour into the street, behind the Volkswagen.

'Sent in the cavalry, have you?' he began, jokingly, but sobered immediately when the target vehicle suddenly burst into life and began to reverse at speed towards the advancing troops. The front end of the vehicle swung round dramatically, as the rear tyres smoked, and the Touareg shot forward, scattering the men in black, who dived out of the way.

'He has other ideas,' John observed, blandly.

'He won't get far,' the other man declared. 'All the exits are blocked and that road is a dead end.'

'Are you sure about that?' John asked, as the getaway vehicle accelerated towards the double metal gates at the end of the street and smashed through them, knocking both gates off their hinges and leaving them to fall at crazy angles as the car disappeared into some bushes.

Mr Smug swore under his breath then began to gabble jargon into his microphone whilst the view on the main monitor changed to an overhead perspective, tracking the speeding Touareg through the grounds of Carlton House, the building for which the terrace was named.

'Where's that image coming from?' John asked, utterly fascinated by all the technology arrayed before him. 'Have you got a helicopter in the air?'

'No, sir, that's from the satellite,' his companion explained, in between giving a running commentary to the troops on the ground about the movements of the Touareg. As the Operation Coordinator spoke, the other vehicles began to manoeuvre again, regrouping, repositioning, reforming the net.

John was stunned. The aerial view was so clear, so detailed. It was hard to imagine that the images were being captured by a camera up in space.

His host continued,

'The satellite is in geostasis above London. It's one of our main anti-terror resources. We can focus in on any part of the city in seconds.'

'Remind me never to pee in the street,' John commented, ruefully, and the other man grinned.

'He can go one of two ways now,' the OC mused. 'Either way, we can kettle him. Ah, he's heading for the A4. That's just fine.'

He passed on the information to the other vehicles and John watched on the bank of monitors as they all converged on the Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace. Some went straight past, up Constitution Hill and formed a road block, just out of sight of the roundabout. The rest turned left, in front of the palace and pulled up, side by side, masked by the elaborate memorial to Queen Victoria, and lay in wait for the approaching Touareg.

'How do you know he won't go down Birdcage Walk?' John asked.

'There is an outside chance but, if he does, we have a couple of armoured cars in reserve, in St James's Park, who will drive him off the road if they have to.'

But even as the other man said this, having barged its way through the light late-evening traffic on the Mall, the Touareg turned right at the Memorial and drove straight into the trap. John wondered whether the driver would try to crash through, which would have been madness but who knew?

However, he didn't. The driver hit the brakes and, engulfed in billows of tyre smoke, the Volswagen screeched to a halt just a few feet from the road block. A tightly-formed group of paramilitary personnel appeared from behind the road block and advanced on the Touareg and its occupants, weapons all trained on the people inside the car.

'Game over,' John exclaimed, with a grin.

'Job done,' his companion confirmed and offered him a high five, which he accepted.

ooOoo

'Mission accomplished,' Mycroft murmured, with a self-satisfied smile, closing his phone and returning it to his inside breast pocket. Looking across at Sherlock, he added,

'John Watson is on his way here. He had a grandstand seat for the operation and seems to have enjoyed it immensely.'

Sherlock shrugged. He was glad someone was having a good time. Sadly, he didn't share that sentiment. He was actually feeling rather sorry for himself, since the pain in both his throat and ribs had intensified as the adrenalin in his bloodstream had diminished. He was loath, however, to admit as much to his brother since he knew he would only get a lecture of the 'I told you so' variety.

Instead, he held out the now-empty whiskey glass and inclined his head toward the decanter on the sideboard. It was the most readily available source of pain relief and he intended to make good use of it. Mycroft pursed his lips, in disapproval, but got up and obliged him with a refill.

While he was doing that, Sherlock took the pad and pen from his pocket and scribbled a note. When Mycroft returned with the whiskey, he showed it to him.

_I know what has unhinged Arthur_, it read.

Mycroft frowned.

'Is it what I suspect?'

Sherlock wrote again.

_I'm not a mind-reader. _

And then:

_They showed him some cleverly manipulated sex tapes with you in the starring role._

'There must be more to it than that,' Mycroft replied. 'Who were my co-stars?'

_Your butler, your Estate Manager and me!_

Mycroft looked genuinely shocked.

_They were very good, _Sherlock wrote again, reading in his brother's eyes the undisguised hurt that Arthur could have believed him capable of such indiscretion or depravity

_If I didn't know better, I might have been convinced. Obviously, the one of you and me was a giveaway. I'm sure I would have remembered!_

'Where are these sex tapes?' Mycroft asked, his lip curling with disgust at even having to say the words.

_At the house in Middleham. They are DVD's, actually, not tapes._

Mycroft took out his phone again and dialled Delaney's number.

'There are some DVD's at the house in Yorkshire. I want them brought straight to me.'

He paused, listening to the reply.

'No, have them taken to my house in Hertfordshire. I will be going back there tonight.'

Another pause, then,

'Yes, please, have those brought there, too. Yes, and those. No, I want the originals, not copies. I will pass them on to the relevant authorities when I've looked at them, fear not. Yes, and good work, Delaney, you've done an excellent job.'

Closing the call, he turned back to Sherlock.

'A courier will deliver those DVD's tonight, along with some security footage from the house cameras. And, you'll be pleased to hear, your clothes.'

'Ah, John, how good of you to join us,' he added, as the door to the private room opened and John Watson entered.

Sherlock glanced up as his friend crossed the floor toward him, with relief etched on his face. For an uncomfortable moment, he feared that John might actually hug him but the doctor must have recognised the look of alarm in the detective's eyes at the prospect and commuted the gesture to a hand shake. But he did grip Sherlock's hand really firmly and shook it for an inordinately long time, fervently demanding,

'Are you alright?'

'He has an injury to his throat,' Mycroft supplied. 'Perhaps you could take a look, doctor?'

'What happened to you?' John asked Sherlock.

'Someone tried to strangle him,' his brother replied.

'Well, I can sympathise with that,' John muttered, taking his penlight torch from his pocket. 'Ok, open wide,' he instructed his friend.

Sherlock scowled at him, annoyed by the sardonic remark, but opened his mouth, rather reluctantly, and let the doctor peer down his throat.

'Hmm,' John said, in the manner of physicians everywhere. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a pen, using it as a tongue depressor, while Sherlock glared at him, feeling ridiculous. After a few more 'hmmm's, John removed the pen and Sherlock clamped his mouth shut.

'Well, it looks rather red and angry but you need a laryngoscopy, really, to see what's going on down there.'

'Well, there's a stroke of luck,' Mycroft remarked. 'I know just the man.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took another swig of whiskey. He hated being at the mercy of other people's decision-making but he was also concerned about the state of his larynx. The pain was not decreasing, despite the whiskey.

ooOoo

In the Summer Drawing Room at Colbert House, Molly and Mary, having put their children to bed, sat in front of the TV, sipping tea – courtesy of Mrs Orgreave, the cook - and trying to watch a historical drama, though neither of them could really concentrate on the action on the screen. Their own lives were far more dramatic than anything the characters in the show had to contend with.

Molly's phone sounded with Mycroft's ring tone.

The two women exchanged a look of concern as Molly took her phone out of her pocket. She hesitated, not pressing 'Answer', fearful of what dire news the caller might be about to deliver.

'Here, Mary, you answer it, please!' Molly blurted, passing the mobile to her friend. The other woman pressed the dreaded button and put the phone to her ear.

'Molly's phone,' she announced, apprehensively.

'Ah, good evening, Mrs Watson, I trust that my staff are taking good care of you and your daughter? Are you finding your accommodation satisfactory?'

'Yes on both counts, Mr Holmes, thank you. We're most grateful to you for inviting us to stay here,' Mary replied.

'Not at all, madam. All gratitude is owed to you for helping out during our current family crisis. Is Molly nearby?' Mycroft enquired, suspecting that Mary had been delegated the task of phone answering.

'She's sitting right next to me,' Mary advised him.

'Then please put her mind at ease by telling her that Sherlock is safe – and sitting right next to _me_.'

'He's safe!' Mary exclaimed, tears starting in her eyes at the expression of overwhelming relief on Molly's face. She passed the phone back into her friend's trembling hand and Molly spoke into it.

'Is he there, Mycroft? Can I speak to him?' she gulped.

'Yes, my dear, he is right here and you can speak to him but he, unfortunately, can_not_ speak back to you,' Mycroft replied, somewhat enigmatically.

'Oh, God! Is he hurt? Is he unconscious?' Molly gasped, full of trepidation once again.

'He is as fully conscious as he ever is,' Mycroft quipped, his humour reassuring Molly that the situation could not be too serious, 'but he has an injury to his throat which makes speech rather painful.'

'Has he seen a doctor?' Molly asked.

'Not yet, apart from Dr Watson of course, but as luck would have it one of our club members is an ENT specialist and has agreed to see us in his surgery as soon as we can attend there. We are on our way to Harley Street, even as I speak to you.'

'That's very kind of him,' Molly declared, feeling a mixture of concern that Sherlock was injured and relief that treatment was pending. 'Could I speak to my husband, please?' she asked.

'Of course, Molly, here he is,' Mycroft exclaimed and passed the mobile to his brother, who was hunched up in the corner of the back seat of the staff car. John had chosen to sit next to the driver to escape Sherlock's morose scowling and, having succumbed to the comfort and warmth of the luxury car, was quietly dozing.

'Sherlock, don't try to speak, just listen,' Molly began. 'I'm sorry you're hurt and I'm hugely relieved that you are free again but you and I need to talk. Not now, of course, but as soon as you are able. Tap on the microphone if you understand.'

There was a short pause and then Molly heard the distinct sound of tapping.

'Good. Now, I will be asking Mycroft for a full report with regards to what the doctor has to say so don't imagine for one moment that you can trivialise the seriousness of this injury or the nature of the treatment, understand?'

Another bout of tapping followed.

'Good, again. Now, the children are in bed but William has been very concerned about you and trying very hard not to show it so I am going upstairs now to tell him that you're safe. I will give him your love, shall I?'

Slow, thoughtful tapping.

'I won't tell him you'll be back tonight, just in case the doctor has other ideas. And if he does decide you need to go to hospital, you will do as he says.'

This was not a question. She listened - and nodded with satisfaction when the sound of reluctant tapping came from the phone.

'OK, excellent, I'm glad we understand each other,' she declared, with another nod. 'And I love you,' she added, in a softer tone.

Three more taps sounded.

She heard Mycroft's voice, in the background, announce,

'We're here.'

'Good luck, darling,' she whispered and closed the call.

ooOoo

Sherlock shut off the phone and handed it back to his brother before following him from the car, across the pavement and up the steps to the front door of the doctor's surgery. He was in a thoughtful mood.

Molly's tone of quiet determination had not been lost on him. He knew that his inability to reply was the only thing that had saved him from a long-range roasting. Nevertheless, his wife had opened the batting on what promised to be a tough innings and he could not deny that he deserved everything she hit his way. The fact that Molly had inferred an agenda for their 'talk' was an obvious tactical move, on her part. No amount of flannel would deflect her. This was a stay of execution, not a commutation.

Mycroft rang the doorbell and the brothers were admitted to the premises by the consultant who greeted the elder Holmes like an old friend, which of course he was. They exchanged pleasantries and Mycroft expressed his sincere apologies for the inconvenience of the late hour as Harry Levite conducted them through Reception and the Waiting Room to the inner sanctum of his Consulting Room.

At this point, the doctor, who had completely ignored Sherlock thus far, invited his patient to sit in the treatment chair and the patient's companion to sit on an elegant sofa at the far end of the room.

'So, Mr Holmes, I gather you have been the victim of an attempted strangulation? Let's take a look, shall we, and assess the damage?'

Without further ado, the doctor squirted a spray of local anaesthetic up each of Sherlock's nostrils and down the back of his throat, to desensitize the delicate lining membranes prior to inserting a fibre optic tube through his right nostril into his trachea, guided by the image on the monitor which displayed what the tiny lens at the tip of the filament was picking up.

Sherlock, with his head tilted back in the head rest, could see nothing but the ornate plaster ceiling rose, positioned right above the chair. Neither could he feel anything but a rather vague sensation, as the probe moved passed his epiglottis and into his larynx at the top of the trachea, manipulated by the consultant's practiced hand, but he could hear the man's grunts and other vocalisations in response to what the laryngoscopy revealed.

'Oh, dear,' the doctor murmured, 'what have we here? You have been in the wars. Could you give me an 'ah', Mr Holmes?'

Sherlock took a breath and opened his mouth to say 'Ah' but had barely begun to emit the sound when the doctor exclaimed,

'Stop, stop! No, that's not good. No, no, not good at all.'

The doctor adjusted the probe a little more, to perform a panoramic scan of Sherlock's larynx then withdrew the filament and allowed Sherlock to sit upright, inviting him to take a sip of iced water from a glass he put in the detective's hand. Placing the laryngoscope on a surgical tray, the doctor removed his examination gloves and dropt them into a small yellow bin, on his treatment trolley.

'Please take a seat, gentlemen,' the Consultant invited, indicating two chairs in front of his desk. He sat in his Consulting Chair behind the desk and his glance took in both brothers as he spoke.

'I'll just talk you through the video of the laryngoscopy,' he explained, tapping on the key board of his pc and then turning the monitor so that Sherlock and Mycroft could both see the images displayed there. The doctor pressed 'Play' and then used a pen as a pointer to draw their attention to the salient features.

'This is your larynx, Mr Holmes, and these two pale structures are your vocal folds – or vocal cords, as they are commonly called. As you can see, it's not a pretty sight. There's a great deal of swelling here and there has been a little bleeding, though it's not bleeding now. Your larynx has been subjected to considerable pressure and you have some severe damage here and here.'

'Your vocal folds are not compromised at the moment but the danger is that this sort of injury can lead to infection, which could spread to the vocal folds. Any damage there invariably leads to scarring which would be permanent. However, I am hopeful that we can avoid that, as long as you follow my instructions to the letter.'

Mr Levite looked at his patient to make sure he was paying close attention.

'You must not speak at all for the next five days, to allow these delicate tissues to repair themselves. I can give you some anti-inflammatories to take orally and an antiseptic throat spray, to prevent any infection developing or spreading. No hot food or drink is to be consumed during that time. You must eat soft food only, to avoid any risk of abrasion to your epiglottis. Just imagine you've had a tonsillectomy, Mr Holmes. Lots of jelly and ice cream for you! And drink iced water, frequently, to keep the area cool and reduce the inflammation.'

He waited for Sherlock to acknowledge these instructions but was met with a stony stare. It was left to Mycroft to thank the good doctor for his time, his expertise and his advice.

'I will ensure that my brother adheres to your instructions, Harry, and thank you so much for seeing us at such short notice.'

Sherlock waited by the door to the Consulting Room, looking bored, while the doctor dispensed the anti-inflamatories and the antiseptic spray and exchanged some banalities with his brother. He rather resented the fact that the consultant deferred to Mycroft, as though he were the responsible adult in the room, whilst speaking to himself as if to a naughty child – so he was channelling stroppy teenager.

He tapped his foot, impatiently, to hurry Mycroft along. He was anxious to be on his way to Colbert House, where there was a certain little boy, desperate to see his father return safe and almost sound.

ooOoo

**Sorry this chapter has been a while coming but, to compensate, it is extra long!**

**Laryngoscopy info dredged up from my memory banks, though I was an observer on that occasion, not the patient, thank goodness!**


	47. Stolen Chapter Forty Six

**No triggers.**

**Chapter Forty Six**

Leaving the doctor's surgery, having barely slept, and not eaten at all, for three full days – ever since Arthur went missing – Sherlock was feeling the effects, aided and abetted by the two large whiskeys he had consumed. Getting into the car, he caught the toe of his clumpy combat boot on the door sill and stumbled, lurching forward and landing heavily on the back seat.

'Shit!' he hissed, as the pain from his ribs overpowered even the effects of the liquid pain killer.

'You alright, mate?' asked John Watson, from his seat next to the driver. He had opted to wait in the car, rather than be a third wheel in the doctor's office. Mycroft, climbing into the car behind his brother, gave him a suspicious look. Sherlock ignored the look and John's enquiry and pulled the seatbelt across in front of him, making several attempts to push the fastener into the lock, before Mycroft took it from his hand and locked it into place.

'Are you sure you're alright?' the elder Holmes enquired.

Sherlock dismissed him with an imperious wave of his hand and turned to peer out of the side window at the passing streets, as the staff car moved off, making its way from Harley Street onto the main arterial route heading towards Hertfordshire. Lulled by the movement of the car, his eyelids drooped and he succumbed to sleep. His head nodded forward but then suddenly jerked upwards, causing him to stiffen and give a sharp gasp of pain.

This entire sequence was repeated several times before Mycroft finally gave in to the impulse to ask the obvious.

'Sherlock, are you hurt somewhere else, as well as your throat?'

'I'm absolutely fine!' Sherlock snapped, and immediately regretted the vocalisation, wincing and closing his eyes, to ride out the pain.

'You are clearly not alright,' Mycroft insisted. 'Where else does it hurt? And don't _tell_ me, _show_ me!'

Sherlock sighed with exasperation and tried to think up some clever flannel but his befuddled brain was incapable of coming up with anything remotely convincing so, reluctantly, he placed his hand on the right side of his rib cage.

'Oh, good god, Sherlock, why didn't you say something before?'

Holmes Minor gave a disdainful huff and pointed to his damaged larynx, in an exaggerated fashion.

'You could have written a note!' Mycroft retorted.

At that loud exclamation, John Watson, who was snoozing in the front of the vehicle, startled awake and looked around, disorientated.

'What? What? What's happening?' he gabbled.

'Nothing important, doctor,' Mycroft declared, 'just another example of my brother's utter disregard for his own well-being. You could have broken ribs, you know. Even a _punctured lung_! Have you considered that possibility?'

Sherlock, once again, waved a dismissive hand in his brother's direction and turned back to the window but, as the car went over a minor bump in the road, he tensed and gasped once more.

'Oh, here,' Mycroft insisted, unfastening his seat belt and moving across to the pull-down jump seat, with his back to the driver. 'Lie down, Sherlock! At least then you won't be thrown around so much. You really are the limit! You know that, don't you?'

Sherlock gave a disgruntled eye roll but accepted his brother's invitation to lie down. He went to slide along to the other end of the bench seat so he could lie on his left side but Mycroft put out an arresting hand.

'No, don't lie on your good side, lie on the injured side!'

Sherlock pulled a face at the utter illogicality of that suggestion. Why lie on the painful side, he thought, won't that be more painful?

'_If_ you have a broken rib and _if_ that rib has punctured your lung, and _if_ that lung is bleeding and you lie with that lung _uppermost_, the blood will drain _down_ into your _good_ lung and you will have _two_ dysfunctional lungs instead of just _one_!' Mycroft hissed, emphasising the key words of his monologue with a reflex clenching of his fists.

Sherlock was frankly too tipsy to argue. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep, so he did – on his right side. John Watson, having observed this inter-sibling altercation with a smile of wry amusement, turned back to face the front, leant his head against the car door and went back to sleep, himself, leaving Mycroft to fume quietly at his brother's chronic inability to take proper care of himself.

ooOoo

An hour later, the car turned into the driveway at Colbert House, in Hertfordshire, and followed the gentle curve towards the stately building. The hour was late – after midnight – and all the lights in the upper story rooms were out except for the soft glow of a night light emanating from the Nursery windows, at the very top of the house. On the ground floor, the hall light was a warm, welcoming sight.

Mycroft reached out to shake Sherlock's shoulder. The recumbent man groaned and opened his eyes.

'We're home,' Mycroft explained.

As the car reached the top of the drive and circled on the forecourt to pull up opposite the front door, the noise of tyres on gravel roused the other sleeping passenger, John Watson, who sat upright, blinking.

The driver jumped out to open the near side rear passenger door and Mycroft stepped out, striding towards the front door which was now also open, courtesy of Andrew Lewis, Mycroft's butler cum valet.

'Good evening, sir. The staff are all so relieved that Mr Arthur is safe, now,' said Andrew, taking Mycroft's proffered umbrella from his hand and placing it in the hall stand before turning to take the party's bags from the driver.

John Watson climbed out of the car and opened the rear passenger door. Sherlock was still lying across the seat.

'Do you need a hand?' he asked.

Sherlock waved him away. He was working up the courage to sit up and didn't particularly relish doing it in front of an audience.

'Alright, I'll leave you to it but don't say I didn't offer.'

He went into the house and greeted the butler.

'Good evening, Dr Watson. You and Mrs Watson are in Byron and Miss Lily Rose is in Lamb. I will show you to your rooms in a moment…'

'Not necessary, Andrew, thank you. I know the way,' John replied, picking up his own bag from the hall floor. Turning to his host, he said,

'Do you want me to take a look as His Nibbs' ribs?'

Mycroft glanced through the doorway to see Sherlock extricating himself from the staff car by rolling sideways off the seat onto his knees then climbing gingerly to his feet.

'No thank you, John. Perhaps in the morning,' he replied.

'Good night, Mycroft,' the doctor said and set off up the main staircase. He had called Mary while Sherlock was being examined by Levite, to let her know he was on his way, and they had made certain promises to one another that he was rather keen to fulfil.

Sherlock passed his brother in the hall and followed John upstairs. Mycroft watched his careful progress, lips pursed disapprovingly, before turning and heading for his study. He had no immediate plans to go to bed. The courier was due to arrive in a couple of hours with the infamous 'sex tapes'. They would comprise his late night viewing.

ooOoo

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock walked along the landing, past Nelson, to Hamilton and slipped quietly into the room. As soon as he opened the door, he caught the aroma that made his heart swell and brought a lump to his throat. It was subtle mixture of laundry detergent, baby shampoo and that indescribable something that was the scent of his sons.

Closing the door softly, behind him, he stepped across the floor to William's side of the antique double bed, where he could see the tumble of dark curls against the pale backdrop of the pillow slip. On reaching the bedside, he went down on one knee and leaned in to drop a gentle kiss on the child's sleeping head but, as he did so, William's eyes popped open and he blinked a few times, registering the presence that had broken his dream.

As recognition dawned, William launched himself from the bed and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, burst into tears and sobbed,

'Daddy! Daddy!'

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the crying child, rocking him back and forth, whispering,

'Shush, shush, little man, please don't cry.'

It took several minutes for William to vent all the stress and tension of the past three days but at last, with a few final shuddering sighs, he sat upright in his father's arms and whispered,

'Are you alright now, Daddy? Mummy said you hurt your throat.'

Sherlock nodded and pointed to his Adam's Apple then did the universal 'thumbs down' sign.

'Can you talk?'

Sherlock whispered his reply,

'I can but I'm not supposed to. It hurts when I do.'

William placed his finger tips against his father's lips.

'Don't talk, then. I don't want you to hurt yourself.'

Sherlock smiled and held up a finger then reached into his pocket and took out the pad and pen. He sat William on the side of the bed, to give himself two free hands, then turned to a clean page and scribbled a note. He showed William what he had written.

_I know you've been worried about me and I'm very sorry about that but I'm back now so there's no need for you to worry any more_.

William read the note and pursed his lips, thoughtfully, then took the pen and pad and wrote back.

_I forgive you, Daddy_, and smiled.

Sherlock gave his eldest son a hug and tucked him back into bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He walked round to the other side of the bed and kissed Freddie, too, who continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the emotional exchange between William and his dad. Sherlock crossed to the door of the Jack and Jill bathroom that linked Hamilton to Nelson, turned to wink at William and left the room.

In the bathroom, Sherlock looked at his reflection in the mirror over the basin. His eyes were blood shot, with dark shadows underneath, and his neck showed signs of emerging bruising, from its encounter with the heavy's forearm. He peeled off the black t-shirt and raised his right arm, to survey the damage to his ribcage. It was much as he had expected – angry red, deepening to blue and purple, from his underarm to his waist. No wonder it hurt so much! But he didn't think his ribs were broken or even cracked. These were soft tissue injuries, so no risk of a punctured lung.

He stripped off the rest of his paramilitary clothing and pulled on his dressing gown, hung considerately behind the bathroom door by Molly, he presumed. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and ruffled his hair, so that it flopped over his forehead again. Washing out all the hair gel would keep until morning. He turned to the door into Nelson, with a feeling of trepidation. He had to face Molly, now, and somehow he doubted she would be as quick to forgive him as William had been.

ooOoo

Molly had been lying awake when she heard the sound of a car approaching the house, and the room was briefly illuminated by a flash of headlights as the staff car carrying Mycroft, John and Sherlock turned onto the forecourt and stopped by the front door. As she hopped out of bed and ran to the window, she heard the engine cut out and the sound of doors opening and closing. Looking down from the first floor window, she saw Mycroft step briskly from the back of the car, leaving the passenger door open, and disappear in the direction of the front hall. Next, John got out of the Shotgun Seat, opened the other rear door, leaned in then stood upright again, slammed that door shut and walked round the back of the car, following Mycroft into the house.

Molly watched and waited. From her bird's eye perspective, she could not see what was going on inside the car but she saw the driver collect three bags from the boot and carry them towards the house. Finally, at long last, she saw Sherlock climb very stiffly from the back of the car and slowly stand up. He put his hand on the roof of the vehicle then, with great determination, walked towards the house.

Molly crossed to the foot of the bed to check on Violet, sleeping peacefully in her travel cot. The baby girl had been far less fretful since Mary and Lily Rose had arrived. Not teething again, then, just missing her midnight playmate. Well, he was back now, though in what sort of condition remained to be seen. He obviously had more than just an injured throat, if his exit from the car was anything to go by. She climbed back into bed and sat hugging her knees, waiting.

She knew he would go to see the boys first – he always did, when he got home after bedtime. When she had gone in to William earlier, he had been wide awake. Although their eldest son was so like his father, in looks, in intellect and in personality, there were a couple of things that she and William had in common – they were both very light sleepers, even at the best of times, and neither of them slept at all well when Sherlock wasn't there.

No doubt. William would wake up when Sherlock came into the room, and be reassured by seeing his father in the flesh. Molly could picture that reunion in her mind's eye, as clearly as though she were a fly on the wall. There would be tears, of that she was certain. Freddie would sleep right through and be pleasantly surprised, in the morning, when he discovered that his errant father was back, at last. He would make some casual remark, like Daddy! You're back! And then carry on as though nothing had happened.

The mantle clock ticked away the seconds, as Molly waited. She heard the far door to the bathroom open and close, heard the light switch click on and saw the door on the Nelson side illuminated in relief. She heard rustling and a few grunts and groans, as clothing was removed. The light at the base of the door was obscured, momentarily, as Sherlock walked over to collect the dressing gown that she had hung there, three days ago. A tap ran and teeth were brushed, water was splashed and there were a few more grunts and groans. And a sigh. Then the light went out and the door opened.

ooOoo

**I want to do their 'little talk' justice so I hope you don't mind waiting just a little longer... :)**


	48. Stolen Chapter Forty Seven

**Brief references to sexual acts and incest.**

**Chapter Forty Seven**

As Sherlock stepped through the door into the bedroom, a movement from the bed pulled him up short. Molly switched on the bedside lamp and leaned back against the headboard, hugging her knees. Sherlock stood still, feeling awkward, waiting for her to say something.

She obliged.

'Why did it take you so long to get out of the car?'

After a few moment's consideration, he stepped forward, untying the belt of his dressing gown and turning sideways, opening the right front panel of the garment to expose his ribs to the light. Molly cast her eyes over the broad area of bruising and her pathologist's expertise filled in the details.

'Your PJ's are on the chair,' she said, inclining her head in that direction.

Sherlock gave a little nod but did not go straight to the chair. Instead, he walked over to the travel cot and placed his hand on Violet's sleeping head, He went to bend forward and drop a kiss on that head but his ribs warned him that might not be such a good idea so, instead, he kissed his finger tips and stroked those across the baby's forehead and then went over to the chair.

Molly watched, her expression implacable, as he picked up his pyjama bottoms and lowered his behind, cautiously, onto the seat in order to put them on. It was like watching a film in slow motion.

'Have you taken any pain relief for that?' Molly snapped.

Sherlock stopped half-way to putting a foot in one leg of his night wear, wondering whether to own up to the whiskey, but decided against and shook his head.

Molly slipped out of bed and went over to the dressing table where she had left her handbag. Reaching inside, she took out a strip of ibuprofen and held it out towards him. He looked at the pills in her hand then pointed to the bathroom and mimed writing. At first, Molly thought he was asking for a glass of water and she was about to tell him to go and get his own but the writing mime made her think again.

'Did the doctor give you a prescription?' she asked. He nodded and pointed to the bathroom again.

She was in two minds to get back into bed and leave him to get his own pills but she knew he probably wouldn't do that so she went into the bathroom herself and found two boxes on the shelf next to the basin. She picked them up and read the labels. One of them was anti-inflamatories. She took one of the tooth mugs and filled it with water but then a thought occurred.

'Have you eaten recently?' she asked, from the bathroom doorway.

He had only managed to get one leg in his PJ's so far and was manoeuvring the second into position. He paused again and shook his head.

Molly put down the glass, marched across to the bedroom door and disappeared. She was gone for about five minutes, during which time Sherlock got both legs into his pyjamas and pulled his t-shirt on, over his head. It was slightly easier with Molly not there because he could groan and gasp as much as necessary. He didn't have to bottle it up.

When she returned, he was sitting on the side of the bed. She handed him a glass of milk and a Kit-Kat bar. It was the only portable food she could find in Mrs Orgreave's well-ordered kitchen.

'Eat the Kit-Kat first,' she instructed then turned her attention to reading the information sheet from the anti-inflamatories, which explained about the dosage and listed any side-effects or contraindications, one of which being not to take them on an empty stomach.

'You are going to have to eat regularly while you're on these or you can't take them,' she informed him, brusquely. He nodded, swallowing the last of the Kit-Kat, and she dispensed two tablets into his hand.

'Take two of these, every six hours, with food,' she said.

He put the tablets into his mouth, one at a time, and washed them down with a gulp of milk. When he went to put the half-empty glass on the bedside table, she intervened.

'Drink it all. You need to protect your stomach lining.'

He drank the rest and put the glass down then sat looking at her, as if waiting for further instructions. She folded her arms and glared at him. He could feel the anger radiating from her, like waves of heat from a raging fire, and he wondered what she might say or do next. She had slapped him, once, a long time ago. He knew she'd regretted that momentary loss of self-control so he didn't think she would slap him again but that did nothing to ease his sense of trepidation. He had never seen her so angry – ever. It made her dangerously unpredictable and that was disconcerting.

'You can't talk at the moment, Sherlock, so we are not going to have this conversation tonight,' she said, at last. 'And I'm probably being far too generous, giving you time to consider your answer but I just need to get this one thing off my chest.'

She paused and licked her lips, as though considering her words very carefully, while he just waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

'When you went charging into that psychiatric hospital, like some sort of latter-day Luke bloody Skywalker, _what on earth were you thinking_?!'

She hissed those last few words with such vehemence that she inadvertently sprayed his face with spittle. He could see her hands shaking with the effort of not shouting – for the sake of the sleeping children, he was sure. Definitely not on his behalf. He wiped his face with the front of his t-shirt, keeping his eyes on her, just in case she decided to slap him anyway. But she didn't. She just stalked round to her side of the bed and got in, turned off the light, turned her back to him and said not another word.

Sherlock climbed into bed, too, and lay on his back, as far over to his side as he could, so as not to incur any further wrath. He had really wanted to say sorry but he knew she wasn't ready to hear that yet and, actually, he didn't think he deserved her forgiveness. She was absolutely right. What had he been thinking? Well, nothing. That was the point, wasn't it? He hadn't even thought about it. He'd just done it.

He lay in the dark, looking up at the invisible ceiling, asking himself what exactly he thought he could have done that all those trained Special Ops guys couldn't. And he could not come up with a single convincing argument.

ooOoo

In the still night air, through the open study window, Mycroft heard the engine of the motor bike from a mile away. By the time the vehicle pulled up outside the front of the house, he was standing at the front door. The courier cut the engine, rolled the bike onto its stand and climbed off, opened the paniers and took out two red canvas bags. The biker walked over to Mycroft and put the bags on the ground, flipped up the helmet visor and took an electronic device from one of the many pockets in the high-vis jacket.

'Sign here, please, sir,' the courier said, with a winning smile.

Mycroft took the device and the stylus, scribbled his signature and handed both objects back to the courier, who put them back into her pocket, picked up the bags and gave them to Mycroft.

'Thank you, my dear,' he said.

The woman smiled again.

'No problem, sir. Good night,' she said.

'Good night to you, and safe journey,' Mycroft replied.

He watched as the courier got back on her motorbike, kick-started it, rolled it off the stand and wheeled away, with a cheery wave, roaring back down the drive and off into the dark night. Mycroft carried the bags inside and closed the front door. Both bags, made of thick, stiff canvas, were secured with a padlock but he had a key in his study that would open both locks and that's where he went.

He opened the larger of the two bags first and found Sherlock's suit, shirt and shoes in there. He put that to one side. The second, smaller bag proved to be a veritable cornucopia. It contained six DVD's, three old-fashioned VHS video cassettes and a mobile phone. The phone, he thought, might be Sherlock's but that was impossible to verify, as the battery was dead. He put it with the clothes.

Taking the six DVD's, he looked at the hand-written labels. Four of them were labelled 'Security' with two dates, from and to. All, that is, but the fourth one, which only had a 'from' date. The other two were labelled, rather enigmatically, A and B. Pragmatically, Mycroft opened 'A' and slipped the disc into the disc drive in his laptop, then he sat down at his desk and waited for it to load.

He recognised the environment immediately. It was his bedroom in the flat in Cadogan Square. And he recognised himself, too. The first mystery was how this footage of his private inner sanctum had been obtained. The physical means was obvious. Someone had installed a camera in the smoke detector, immediately above his bed. But who had done that? And when and how? And why had Mycroft not known about this until now?

Mycroft pressed Fast Forward to advance the action to the point where his co-star in this erotic fantasy was revealed, then paused the screen. How had they done that, he wondered, put Andrew Lewis's face on that body? And whose body was it? And when had the original encounter taken place? He shunted the footage on to the next section and watched with amazement as his doppelganger performed a very lewd act on a most unlikely partner whilst that person did the same to him. Charles Meadows, Mycroft thought, was an excellent Estate Manager and a good human being but he really was not his type! Even had he not been a member of his staff, and assuming that they had met in a purely social setting, he would not have found the man remotely attractive!

And as for the act of mutual pleasuring…No! Mycroft advanced the video to the next section which, he assumed, would be the piece featuring himself and his brother apparently engaged in a spot of incest.

The moment the new video began to play, Mycroft gave a gasp of understanding and sat back in his chair. He recognised this footage – or rather he recognised where this footage came from - but it had been heavily manipulated. For one thing, the setting appeared still to be his bedroom in Cadogan Square but he knew that the bed linen had belonged to his mother and had never been anywhere near the flat in Knightsbridge.

Secondly, the original footage from which this had been adapted had been discovered amongst his mother's personal effects – in her bedroom safe – after her death and had been in Mycroft's possession ever since, most recently secreted in the safe in _his_ bedroom at Cadogan Square.

The original sexual partner, a kitchen assistant, caught on camera cavorting with the adolescent Sherlock had been summarily sacked by his mother, dismissed without a reference, and sent packing. Mycroft had only learned about the sordid affair after he discovered the video evidence, recognized the young woman in question and asked the family cook if she knew anything about it. The cook had been sworn to secrecy by his mother but, now Mrs Holmes was dead, her loyalty transferred to Mycroft and she had spilled the beans.

Mycroft picked up the VHS video cassettes and looked at them more closely. One cassette looked very much like another and these had no labels or other identifying markings but he had a good idea where these had come from, what was on them and who had 'acquired' them from that place. Another mystery solved. He would send these cassettes, along with the 'sex tapes', to the tech guys in his department and they would confirm his suspicions and explain how the sex tapes had been made.

He pushed the DVD and the video cassettes back into the canvas bag and rubbed his face. He was dog tired and needed to go to bed. DVD 'B' and the security footage would have to wait. Tomorrow was likely to be a difficult day, taking the children to see their Poppah and having to watch Arthur explain that he would not be coming home for a while – possibly not for ever, if he could not be convinced that Mycroft was innocent of all charges.

Trust was a delicate flower. Once damaged, it rarely recovered completely.

ooOoo

**Round One down. Seconds out, Round Two...**


	49. Stolen Chapter Forty Eight

**Chapter Forty Eight**

During the night, though force of habit, Sherlock and Molly had gravitated towards one another so, when the gurgles and chirrups of Violet's morning aria woke Molly, she found Sherlock curled around her, his breath blowing gently on the back of her neck. For a moment, she luxuriated in the feeling of comfort and security that his embrace engendered but, as she became fully awake, she remembered she was cross with him and crawled out from between his arms.

Passing Violet's travel cot, on her way to the bathroom, Molly gave her daughter a little belly rub and assured her that she would be back in a minute to open the milk bar. True to her word, she soon returned to the bedroom and lifted Violet from the cot, to be rewarded by a beaming smile.

During her absence, Sherlock had rolled back to his side of the bed and all she could see of him was a mass of matted curls, where his hair was clumped together by the wax he had used to slick it back, the day before. Molly could only guess at why he had used so much product on his hair. She assumed it had something to do with the peculiar collection of clothes on the bathroom floor. No doubt all would be revealed, eventually.

'Breakfast is served,' Molly cooed, as she settled herself on the bed, cross-legged, with her pillows bunched up behind to provide lumbar support. She cradled Violet in her lap and lifted up the right side of her nightshirt to nurse the baby.

'No nipping,' she cautioned, giving Violet a stern look, as the little girl latched onto her mother's nipple and began to suckle vigorously.

Violet was a bit of a nipper, Molly had discovered. At first she thought it was just because of the teething but she had since realised that her daughter was not above the odd nip of disapproval, when she thought things were not quite going her way. Molly had adopted the 'three strikes and you're out' rule, for these circumstances and Violet was beginning to get the message – having had her mealtime interrupted a time or two while Mummy expressed her milk rather than delivering it direct from source.

On this occasion, the mealtime passed without incident and when Molly sat Violet up in order to bring up her wind, mother and baby were still on good terms.

'Look who's here,' Molly murmured, drawing her daughter's attention to the motionless mound on the other side of the bed.

Violet recognised the back of Sherlock's head and gave a loud chortle, waving her arms and legs. Molly reached over and poked her husband in the back.

'Hey, Daddy, there's someone here wants to say hello,' she said, loud enough to break into his post-case coma and rouse him. He went to stretch and roll over but was rudely reminded of his physical injuries by a sharp stab to his right side, as his intercostal muscles protested at being required to do such work. He rolled over more carefully and met Violet's almond shaped, opal coloured eyes with a sleepy smile.

'Here, I think she wants Daddy-cuddles,' Molly surmised and passed the baby over to him. 'Careful, though. She hasn't burped yet.'

Sherlock sat the baby on his chest and supported her with one had whilst patting her back with the other. Amid a cacophony of giggles and gurgles, Violet emitted a very loud belch, which set both her parents chuckling, though Sherlock's quickly morphed into a coughing fit, closely followed by gasps, as his throat and ribs conspired to torment him.

'Do you need me to take her?' Molly asked, being careful not to sound too sympathetic. She wasn't as angry as she had been the night before but she wasn't about to let him off the hook.

He shook his head and, using his feet and one arm, scooted himself up the bed, so that his shoulders were on the pillows and his head against the head board, and began pulling faces at Violet, who obliged by pulling them back. Molly watched him and his daughter sharing this moment and it only served to reinforce what a terrible tragedy it would be for her three children if their father were not to come home one day. _Stupid man!_ she thought.

The sound of the door from Hamilton into the connecting bathroom announced the imminent arrival of the Hooper-Holmes boys. Freddie came barrelling into his parents' bedroom ahead of his older brother and stopped dead, just across the threshold.

'Daddy! You is back!' he exclaimed, shrilly.

'Freddie, I just told you Daddy was back,' William interjected, entering the room in a far more dignified manner, 'didn't you hear me?'

'Yet, I did hear you, Willum, but now dat I tan see Daddy, I know dat it is twue!' Freddie replied, nodding vigorously.

'But of course it's true!' William was appalled. 'Why would I tell you something that isn't true?'

'Pfff, I don't know. Maybe if you was habing a joke, you would tell me sumfing dat isn't twue,' Freddie suggested.

'I would never joke about something as serious as Daddy coming back. That would be cruel!' William was deeply shocked at the very idea.

'No, dat would not be a vewy funny joke,' Freddie agreed – but then had an epiphany.

'But, if you said dat Daddy was not back and he was, dat would be a good joke and I would laugh!' Freddie beamed and, turning his attention back to Sherlock, ran towards the bed, shreiking,

'Daddy! You is back!'

William wrinkled his brow and shook his head in bewilderment. He really did not understand Freddie's logic. It was so…illogical!

'Steady on, Freddie!' Molly exclaimed, 'Daddy is a bit…delicate. Don't go jumping on him.'

_Typical Molly,_ Sherlock thought, _she may be mad at me but it doesn't stop her caring. _And she would never dream of disparaging him in front of the children.

He flicked a cautious grimace of gratitude in her direction, being careful to avoid eye contact so as to show the correct degree of deference due to her infinite moral superiority.

Freddie came to the side of the bed and rested his forearms on the mattress.

'Tan I tum in bed wiv you, Daddy?' he asked, putting his head on one side and smiling, appealingly.

'Yes, of course you can come in bed, Freddie,' Molly replied, 'you both can. But come round this side and don't jump on Daddy. He has poorly ribs.'

'Poorly ribs and a poorly throat?' William queried. 'How did that happen?'

Sherlock saw the concern etched on William's face and felt the barbs of a guilty conscience for being the source of that concern, yet again.

'Daddy met some very bad men, darling,' Molly explained, pulling William into a reassuring hug and giving Freddie a helping hand up onto the bed. 'They were a bit mean to him but Uncle Mycroft caught the bad men and now they can't be mean to Daddy or anyone else, any more,' she concluded, brightly.

_Hang on a minute,_ Sherlock thought, _how come Uncle Mycroft gets all the glory? After all, it was me who lured the bad men into the trap. It was my plan that won the day! All Mycroft had to do was work out a simple puzzle, that should have taken him about half the time it actually did take, considering he's supposed to be so bloody smart!_

As these thoughts flashed though Sherlock's mind, they also flickered across his face, like scenes from a silent movie. But Molly had moved on.

'OK, I'm going to leave you boys – and girl – to your fun and games while I just have a shower. I may be gone some time!' she announced and trotted off to the bathroom, feeling an immense sense of relief at not having to hold the fort any more, as the lone parent. She paused, in the bathroom doorway, looking back.

'Oh, and, Daddy…Violet's night nappy needs changing,' she smiled and closed the bathroom door.

ooOoo

Mycroft was at his desk, in his study, by seven thirty that morning, and on the phone to Anthea.

'Do we have the entire cell in custody now?' he asked.

'We believe so, sir. They are part of a much bigger network, of course, but we think that all the men specifically under Moran's leadership have been apprehended. The racehorse trainer, Miss Burrows, has been particularly helpful. She claims to have been completely in the dark about Moran's terrorist activities. She insists he is just her landlord. He does own the yard and all the other amenities, as well as the house, presumably bought with the proceeds of his Eastern European drug trafficking. She's given us free access to all the CCTV footage from her security system. I understand you already have the footage from the house.'

'Yes, I do. I haven't had time to look at it all so, since I won't be in the office today, perhaps you could send someone over to collect the DVD's and make a start on them.'

'Of course, sir,' Anthea assured him.

'There are some VHS tapes, too, which I believe contain some very sensitive footage. I don't have a video cassette player here. Perhaps someone with maximum security clearance could look at those? And some equally sensitive DVD's – doctored images that have been cleverly manipulated for the express purpose of inventing a scandal involving me. I want the tech people to work out how these videos were produced. That's rather urgent, actually. Top priority. If there are any other copies out there and they were to be made public, I want to be prepared with a cast iron explanation of how the illusion was achieved.'

Anthea made a note of all these instructions.

'Will there be anything further, sir?' she asked.

'Yes, I've sent you a final draft of a press release. With all that wild activity in Central London last night, no doubt the rumour machine is running full throttle, this morning. So we need to put the public's minds at ease. It's the usual sort of thing - terror plot foiled, arrests made, you know the drill. The PM should read it out, standing out in front of No 10, to give it some gravitas.'

'Very good, sir. I'll see to that personally.' Anthea replied.

'And then there's Arthur's family. They need to be de-briefed and taken home. The sisters and mother might want to visit him at St Hugh's and I'm sure he'd like to see them. Facilitate that, would you?'

Anthea replied in the affirmative.

'Have I forgotten anything?' Mycroft asked.

'Sherlock's witness, sir, Mr Wiggins. He's still enjoying our hospitality.'

'Do we have a statement from him?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Let him go home…or back to wherever he calls home, anyway. Oh, yes, and Marcus Frayne. I need the name of his accomplice, the one who assisted him in the snatch. I think he has something that belongs to me. I want it back. Tell him, if he tells me who that person is, he can go about his business.'

'And if he won't, sir?'

'I'm sure we can link him to any number of extraordinary renditions that have occurred in the last few years. He may never see the light of day again.'

'Very good, sir,' Anthea affirmed, with a smile. _Don't mess with Mycroft Holmes,_ she thought, as she closed the call and resumed her breakfast.

ooOoo

'Daddy, are we doeing home now you're back?' Freddie asked.

'Daddy can't talk, Freddie, remember? He's got a poorly throat,' William reminded his younger brother.

Sherlock was kneeling on the floor, with the baby bag beside him and Violet lying on her changing mat, on the bed. The offending night nappy had been removed and he had freshened her delicate skin with baby wipes and was now applying talcum powder to her derriere before putting on a fresh nappy.

What a bizarre life he led, he thought. Yesterday, dicing with death, in the lair of a dangerous criminal; today, changing a baby's nappy and trying to hold a conversation with his sons, without speaking.

With his principal spokesperson otherwise engaged, Sherlock had to find an alternate means of communication. The pad and pen that had been so useful thus far were still in the pocket of his trousers, on the bathroom floor, so also unavailable. A thought occurred and he broke, for a moment, from the baby wrangling, took hold of Freddie's hand, drew a letter 'a' on his palm and gave him a quizzical look.

'Ooh, Daddy! Dat tickles!' Freddie giggled. 'Are we pyaying Wound and Wound de Darden, Yike a Teddy Bear?'

'No, Freddie, He's writing on your hand. That's a letter 'a'…' William began, then,

'Oh!' he exclaimed, looking exactly as Sherlock did when he had a sudden revelation. 'Do you know the BSL alphabet, Daddy?'

A light went on in Sherlock's Mind Palace and a musty old cupboard door creaked open. _Yes, of course, _he thought_. Didn't everybody know the British Sign Language alphabet? _He'd learned it at school_._

He smiled and nodded at William and, having completed the nappy changing task, he cleaned his hands on a baby wipe, cleared away the debris into a nappy bag, tied the handles together and tossed the bag into the bedroom waste basket, then climbed stiffly back into bed. With Violet lying across his belly, he finger-spelled the answer to Freddie's question. William acted as interpreter for his little brother, who hadn't completely mastered the written alphabet yet, let alone the signed one.

'I need to do something first, then we can go home,' William translated.

'What do you need to do?' he asked.

'Say it wid your pingers, Willum!' Freddie squeaked. He thought this 'talking with your hands' was a great game. William obliged by spelling out the words as he spoke them. Freddie tried very hard to copy but only succeeded in twisting his fingers into peculiar knots, though he didn't seem to notice the difference.

Sherlock explained that he would be going with Uncle Mycroft, Katy and Charlie to see Uncle Arthur because there was something very important he needed to tell him. And only he could do that.

ooOoo

Molly stepped out of the shower with her hair wound up in one towel and a second towel wrapped around her wet body. She looked at the pile of clothes lying in a heap on the bathroom floor, where Sherlock had discarded them the night before. She was pretty sure that he would have no further use for them. They really weren't his style. But once they had been laundered, she thought, they could go to the local charity shop.

She bent down to pick them up and drop them in the laundry basket, and felt a weight in one of the trouser pockets. Feeling inside, she found the pad and pen that Colonel Moran had given to Sherlock. She looked at it with curiosity and read the first note, a two digit number and a London postcode. She didn't recognise the postcode but she assumed it was the address of Sherlock's secret bolthole in Leinster Gardens

She sat on the side of the bath and turned the page to read the next note:

_'__Members have private lockers. I am a member. Memory stick in my locker.'_

And the next:

'_LOCKER ROOM'_

She read on:

'_PRIVATE club. Only members and guests of. You need me to GET IN.'_

'_Come in. I'll show you.'_

'_No talking AT ALL. IT'S THE CLUB RULE.'_

'_Don't like, don't join,'_

Molly was confused. These notes were all about the Diogenes Club, the private club where Mycroft was the current chairman. So far as she was aware, Sherlock was not a member. In fact, he despised the place. Why had he been talking about it like that? Was that where he had taken Moran and his men? And if so, when was that decided? And how did Mycroft know?

Was this why Mycroft had asked to see the original text of the email that Sherlock had sent to her? Were the references to the 'little place in Bayswater' just a red herring? That was it! There was another message, hidden in the email but where and what it was, she had no clue.

Wherever it was, thank God Mycroft had figured it out in time! It chilled her blood to think what might have happened if the double bluff had not come off, and she was suddenly grateful to be sitting down. She felt physically sick. It brought back into full focus the enormous risks that Sherlock had taken with his own life.

'Stupid, stupid man!' she gasped and threw the pad and pen on the floor.

There were more notes to be read but she couldn't face them, just at the moment. The anger that had mellowed slightly overnight was back up to full power. She rubbed furiously at her hair, to dissipate some of the emotion. She had to calm down before she went back into the bedroom because, right now, she really did feel like punching him! But she would not risk upsetting the children. They had been through enough.

ooOoo


End file.
